


Midget

by Virodeil



Series: Caught Is Caught Is Cuddled [18]
Category: Thor (Movies)
Genre: A journey of slow healing, Acceptance, Adoption, Age Regression/De-Aging, Alien Food, Asgard, Bartering, Bicycles, Board Games, Books, Bookstores, Cameras, Canon Divergence - Thor (2011), Cell Phones, Chatting & Messaging, Children, Chinese Food, Chopsticks, Circus, Clothing, Coffee, Cool, Croissants, Cross-cultural, Cultural Exploration, Culture Clashes, Culture Shock, Diabetes inducing fluff, Disability, Disney Movies, Drabble Series, Family, Films, Fish, Flowers, Games, Gen, Gender Issues, Goat Farm, Heat Stroke, Holidays, Home, Hot Chocolate, Hotels, Hugs, Ice, Ice Cream, Ice Powers, Ice Skating, Internalised Racism, Internet, Jotunn | Frost Giant, Jötunheimr | Jotunheim, King of Asgard, Kings & Queens, Language Barrier, Language of Flowers, Late Night Booty Call, Legends, Lemon Cakes, Loneliness, Mages, Magic, Mama laufey, Medical Conditions, Meeting the Parents, Milk, Milkshakes, Misery, Miðgarðr | Midgard, Money, Music, Mystery, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Nightmares, Not a Crossover, Online Shopping, Origami, Orphans, Other, POV First Person, POV Loki (Marvel), Paintball, Pancakes, Photographs, Photography, Pillow & Blanket Forts, Pillow Fights, Playgrounds, Public Transportation, References to Norse Religion & Lore, Repayment, Restaurants, Sharing Clothes, Sharing a Bed, Showers, Sign Language, Single Parents, Snow and Ice, Social Media, Star Wars References, Stomach Ache, Swimming, Swimming Pools, The Lord of the Rings References, The Nine Realms, Umbrellas, Unexpected Family Relations, Unexpected Visitors, Urban Legends, Vehicles, Video & Computer Games, Winter, Winter Olympics, Winter Solstice, Written Conversation, air travel is scary, assembling toys, internalised sexism, loss of a child, more tags added as we go, sensitive topics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-29
Updated: 2020-08-18
Packaged: 2021-03-03 06:01:07
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 100
Words: 20,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24440110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Virodeil/pseuds/Virodeil
Summary: Loki wants a friend. Loki… gets a friend?Well, more than justonefriend… maybe… and more than justfriends.And it all donothappen in Asgard, sadly.
Relationships: Laufey (Marvel) & Loki (Marvel), Loki (Marvel) & Original Character(s)
Series: Caught Is Caught Is Cuddled [18]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1089204
Comments: 443
Kudos: 156





	1. Loneliness

**Author's Note:**

> The early circumstances – timing and reason – of the beginning of this story was inspired by the fic _A Friend for A Week_ by **LokasennaHiddleston**. This story is composed of interconnected 200-word drabbles. Most of the tags – AO3 tags – represent the respective drabbles in this story. The tag lable is used as the title of the corresponding drabble.
> 
> This is my chance to use the tags I rarely or never use. I hope you will like the result. Comments, criticisms and ideas are welcome. ☺
> 
> Enjoy!  
> Rey
> 
> Edit: This story is complete, by now. But feel free to suggest tags for the sequel, which will be from Laufey's POV, titled _Mummy_.
> 
> Started on: 1st May 2020 at 02:40 PM  
> Finished on: 18th July 2020 at 09:14 PM

A week from now, my nameday _and_ Thor’s hasty coronation will occur. A week. I do not feel cheered. The opposite, in fact. I do not feel like I am going to be older by a year next week. And I _still_ do not think that Thor will make a good king, at that, with him newly into his adulthood and how he has been behaving.

If only Asgard would see that, especially Father, Mother _and_ Thor….

Eh. I _could_ visit Jötunheim to use the jötnar as bait to disrupt the coronation, to postpone it….

It is not the first time that this thought has entered my mind. And again, I dismiss it. People already _think_ that I am not good enough, mature enough. This stunt will only exacerbate it, _badly_.

Maybe, a week away from this festive ambience – _that does not include me_ – will spark an idea…?

I might even be able to have some companionship of my own. _True_ companionship.

Where to go, though? What to do? What to _be_ , even? So many possibilities….

Well, if I wish to be _truly_ anonymous, not antagonised right away, and perhaps even get a friendly companion to spend the week with….


	2. Clothing

Midgard. It has… changed. _So much_.

I am garbed in the attire that the Midgardians wore the last time I came here. But….

I cringe.

They wear _so little_ , now! In my tunic and leggings, I stand out horribly.

In fact, I am being a _spectacle_ , at present. And I _hate_ being an object of unfavourable curiosity.

The transportation spell took me to a well-visited, sun-drenched beach, apparently. And now I am pressed from all sides by sweaty, sun-kissed, skimpy-clothed Midgardians – _mortals_.

But, if they are indeed mortals, why do they look so _gigantic_? Did the spell somehow bring me to _Jötunheim_ instead, and the jötnar are toying with me through illusions? Can – _would_ – the _frost_ giants go so far as to create an illusion of _heat_?

Well, in any case, I am not willing to be here even a heartbeat longer.

My smaller body makes it both easier and harder to find the way out of this torture. Easier because I can slip in-between all the milling bodies, and harder because it is hard to see where I am going. Twice do I find myself being turned around, and it does not help my mood any.

What a holiday.


	3. Money

My boots drag on the sand slower and slower the farther I walk. The combined heat of the sun and the bodies surrounding me makes me feel faint and rather claustrophobic. And the press of bodies _never ends_.

And then, among all the various body odors, I scent what vaguely smells like food.

My stomach joins the fray with severe hunger pangs.

The transportation spell has unexpectedly sapped so much out of me, and now my body demands replenishment most ardently.

I cannot help it. I follow my nose.

Midgardians – mostly children with their elders or parents – stand in a single, snaking file before what looks like a kiosk shaded by a colourful, flimsy roof. Other Midgardians stand in the same manner before neighbouring kiosks. And the kiosks themselves seem to provide different things, judging from the various items that people walking away from them bear in their hands.

Hesitantly, I position myself at the end of the file that stands before a drink-providing kiosk. – As much as I wish to eat, I need to hydrate myself more. Maybe a glass of sweet mead can solve both problems.

I have nothing to buy it with, however, nor to get it.


	4. Magic

Seiðr is a thing of scorn in Asgard. It is fitting only for women and old men, and both are seen as lower than hale, hearty men in most cases. Daggerwork has the same connotation.

I am master of both.

And presently, I need the former to provide me a bartering item, so that I will be able to buy a measly drink without ending this dubiously luxurious period of anonymyty.

A paltry skill for a paltry reason. How… fitting.

Sighing, I squat down and, coating my hands in a layer of protective working, scoop up some sand for my little project. The sand grains are rough, hot and dry against my skin, but they will do for what I have in mind. Their colour is pretty enough, at least.

Hidden in my cupped hands and fed continuously by trickles of my seiðr, I can feel the sand slowly coming together, morphing, hardening, shaping up by my will alone.

This “trick” is one of the basics of seiðrwork, mastered by children before they can advance further in their training. The only ingredients are controlled trickles of one’s seiðr, will, and firm, detailed visualisation.

And, shortly, I have my bartering item.


	5. Language Barrier

Resting on the palm of my hand lies a detailed sandstone sculpture of lúkvir flower, but without stem and leaves. The result of my “children’s trick.” It is big, detailed and pretty enough – in my opinion – to serve as mantelpiece decoration or a paperweight. It might net me more than a drink, _if_ I manage to haggle a decent barter for it.

The Midgardians move so slowly through the strange file, but my impatience and discomfort are soothed – at least a little – by my renewed confidence and eagerness, with a bartering item in hand. – I cannot wait to taste the drinks on offer! They smell rather fruity, but also somewhat savoury, and such blend is rare in all the realms that I have visited.

The shopkeeper is a young woman with short, purple conical spikes for hair and bubbly demeanour, as I find once I arrive at the kiosk’s counter. And, unfortunately….

“Hiya! What flavor, kid?”

I gape.

“I am not a goat’s offspring!”

Why in Asgard did I say that? And what is wrong with my voice? It sounded so… _childish_.

She laughs, then.

I am not surprised. If I were she, I would laugh as well. But _still_!


	6. Bartering

“What flavour, boyo?” the strange Midgardian asks again, this time in an affected accent from… some other place.

I frown. Putting aside the odd diction, I show her the small sandstone sculpture that my seiðr has just crafted. “I wish to barter for three of the drinks on offer with this.”

She looks at me oddly, her gaze blank. “You all right, kid?” she says instead. “You know you need money to buy things, right?”

` _Oh._ `

My heart plummets to the depths of my belly.

I struggle to keep my irritation, embarrassment and utter confusion from showing, as impatient grumbles are rising from the column of Midgardians standing behind me. – The villages still did bartering last time! I do not have the copper, silver and gold coins that they used with me right now. I doubt Asgardian currency would do. Besides, I am attempting to be _anonymous_ , here!

Well, my anonymyty is beginning to fray badly, in any case, with how I am attracting quite the unwanted attention. I _need_ to escape this presently.

“Could I barter this with some money, then?”

` _Damn. I sound so inane._ `

And the shopkeeper sighs, _while looking pityingly at me_. I feel so _humiliated_.


	7. Sign Language

Muttering a vague excuse, I slink away from the kiosk, empty-handed but for the useless trinket that I made. – What a beginning to the week! Now I am wondering if I should just return to Asgard and bear the festivities and all that come from such.

But then, I must bear Thor’s _increased_ rambunctiousness, also….

Well, come to think of it again, trying to survive here might not be a bad choice. I might find somebody who would trade this trinket with some Midgardian currency. And then I could get a hearty drink to slake my thirst and hunger and this overbearing heat, and–.

“Oomph!”

I blink. The person – a young woman – whom I have just bumped into also blink.

And then she raises a fist.

I brace myself and ready a counter-attack, just in case.

Then she… rotates the fist before her sternum… as if about to cast an area spell… or in hunting or military signage….

But I feel no foreign seiðr touching my surroundings.

Then, why would she not just _speak_? We are facing each other, after all, and this is not a stealth mission by any definition!

Worse, she seems to _expect_ me to… reciprocate?


	8. Disability

“I do not know what you meant with that,” I mutter grudgingly when the young woman continues to stare at me.

She huffs, _but otherwise says nothing_.

` _Can she not hear me? Can she not speak? Is she…?_ `

“I do not know what you meant with that,” I repeat, slower and louder, with exaggerated lip movements and even some hand gestures. I feel strange and uncouth doing so, but I _do_ wish to know what the sign means, and a deaf person _might_ respond to this combination. – I am too curious for my own good, indeed, at times.

In reply, she mimics us bumping against each other with her hands, pats her chest, then, with an effort and in a rather unclear voice, vocalises, “I am sorry.”

I give her a shruggy look, dismissing her apology. I am much more interested in her signage than the incident that I think I instigated.

“Teach me?” I mimic her earlier sign while pointing my other hand at it.

No hale-and-hearty, non-relative ás would even consider speaking more with one such as she, let alone studying _from_ her, forget to wed her. But, well, there is the customs, and there is my curiosity.


	9. Bookstores

The young woman frowns slightly. Then she looks at me, up and down and up again, in a manner that is obviously thoughtful, even critical.

I feel unexpectedly self-conscious. – I hate being so short among these weirdly gigantic Midgardians. Even this one is chest-to-head with me!

I am surprised when she then drags me by my wrist, weaving in and out of the crowds. I try to yank my appendage free, but her grip is shockingly firm.

But then, we come upon… _a library_?

But, if it is a library, why would people who queue in front of the librarian’s desk seem to exchange things for the books they bring, like at the drink kiosk? And they bring the books _outside_ – into the crowds! Not even I – _a prince of the realm_ – am allowed to risk books so, in Asgard! Not that I wish to do so, in any case.

The young woman grabs a book seemingly at random, then a few… small things… on another rack. And then she tows me to the queue in front of the desk, only to exchange a slip of colourful, somewhat-dirty-and-smelly parchment for those items with the… librarian?

My. I am _severely_ confused.


	10. Restaurants

I let out a resigned huff when the young woman _once more_ drags me away. If I were not so leery of making a scene here….

My irritation fades away, however, as we arrive at yet another building nearby, from which seeps out smells of food – alien, but definitely _food_. Hunger makes itself known again, accompanied by thirst and exhaustion. I do not know how I will pay for the food, or pay the young woman for the food, _but I want the food, badly_.

She tows me inside, past a pair of doors paned with clear glass – or is it crystal? – and framed with some kind of silvery metal. I keep swallowing back my saliva as we weave between small and big tables seating so many Midgardians.

And then we seat ourselves opposite each other at a rectangular table for two, and I am faced with a large, thin book filled with colourful pictures of food and words beneath each.

It takes my utmost will not to let my jaw slacken.

` _How prevalent are books here? Can all Midgardians read? Or are the pictures there for those who cannot read? What am I supposed to do with this book?_ `


	11. Chinese Food

The young woman says something – “Choose,” or maybe “Shoes” – while pointing at the pictures, one by one.

“I… should choose some food?” I hedge. “For me? Or you? Or us?”

She waves at me. I give her another shruggy glance and begin to scrutinise the pictures.

I hate looking like an idiot, and I must be looking like one, for I recognise nearly none of what are displayed on the book. There is some kind of small, roundish bread, but it is halved and accompanied by chopped meat and vegetable soaked in a reddish sauce, and it is _one of the most familiar things_ that I find here. I dare not contemplate what the bowls of worm-like or hair-like things might be made of, or what “tofu” might mean.

Well, but I will never know if I never try some, will I? Just… I need to find things that are _seemingly_ safest to eat. Such as this marinated fish, or this glazed-and-stuffed fowl. I ought not to be worried, ought I? Mingling with the locals of a world is not new for me, after all. And I have been exploring for _centuries_.

Just… _why am I so short_? Even here?


	12. Children

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was on a roll today regarding writing and editing this story. I wanted to share some of the fun with you, hence 2 updates in one day. ☺ Enjoy!

The young woman waves at a passing waiter, just like what one would do in a tavern. Except that a tavern is usually populated by rowdy drunkards, much less clean, and smelling strongly of ale. Males would not be tavern waiters, too. Neither would the waiters be so cleanly and tidily clad in a uniform. And, to date, I am yet to find a waiter in a common public eatery who is so composed as this one and his fellows are, even cultured, in addition to their friendly persona. These even _write so effortlessly_ on slips of paper clipped to a small board!

This is so… intriguing.

My attention wanders once the meal orders have been passed to the waiter. – I hope I did it safely by choosing “oolong tea” for my drink, since I found neither ale nor mead in the drink lists. But that thought does not stay for long.

A group of Midgardians has just trooped in from outside, and there is somebody who is of my height in it.

Only, judging from his looks, behaviour and treatment by the tall ones, he is yet _a child_.

And the waiter, like the shopkeeper before, treated me similarly….


	13. Written Conversation

When I retract my wide-eyed stare, I find a piece of thin parchment before me on the yet-empty table, blank but for the uniform horizontal lines filling it from top to bottom. The topmost line is already filled in half-way, by a roundish, neat handwriting with dark-pink ink. It says, “ **Hello. My name is Atlanta. You can call me Ata. What is yours?** ”

The young woman points at the first word when I look up, then makes a sign that I assume means “Hello.”

Oh. The signage that I asked her to teach me.

I mimic her, till she nods her approval and moves to the next words. And then she pointedly proffers a green, thin, long cylindrical something to me. In her hand is another item, coloured dark pink, which she proceeds to show me how to grip and use correctly.

Like I were a child learning my letters for the first time, indeed.

It is hard to concentrate on using her written language through Allspeak, when my thoughts are full of confusion, dread and denial of what the spell might have _additionally_ done to me.

Maybe, it is why I accidentally introduce myself as _Loki_ to her.

` _Damn._ `


	14. Cell Phones

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Folks, I just wanted to let you know, I am stuck on chapter 24. It features someone feeling faint and short of breath, something that I sadly still experience at times now while I am recovering from gastroesofageal reflux disease, and I am an empathic writer…. This time, I and my muse _both_ baulk against touching that chapter even with a loooong pole. Hopefully, by then I have overcome this block, either by recovering fully, pushing through, or both – hopefully both. Please send me your prayers or good thoughts/vibes if you got any to spare? Thanks, and, till then, I hope you'll enjoy this meandering journey. (This fic promises to be a long one… if my muse does not get tired of it, first.)  
> Rey

Our conversation, nervous on my side, is interrupted when the waiter returns with a tray of drinks in delicate-looking crystalline glasses. The young woman – Atlanta – fishes out a rectangular item from somewhere on her person, while I gingerly sip on my “oolong tea,” which turns out to be a fragrant, bitter brew with other flavours mixed in.

Her activity attracts my interest when she props the item against her glass, touches a few parts of it, then… begins to converse with somebody else through the item using a mix of signage and sounds?

I _should not_ watch the activity… but I do it anyway, curious as ever.

And, when she is apparently finished conversing, I knock on the table to gain her attention. Then I point at the devise and make an exaggeratedly confused look, to convey, “What is it?”

She gives me a wry stare in return.

“ **Cell phone. What else?** ” she writes.

I stifle a huff, caught between worry and increased curiosity. – There are _so many_ things that I must learn about _this_ Midgard! How and from which point should I start?

“ **Consider me ignorant about nearly everything. Please explain,** ” I write back, at last, grudgingly. ` _How gauling…._ `


	15. Chatting and Messaging

Atlanta turned out to have stored another, older “cell phone” – or so she claimed – in the small bag that she has wrapped round her waist, and she has been using it to teach me about what she calls “text messaging.” It is similar to the written conversation that we have been doing, but without physically writing the letters, only pushing on labelled buttons. I cannot immediately see the “text messages” that I have sent her, either, although they have appeared in the blink of an eye on the “cell phone” that she has been handling herself.

I… _never_ thought that Midgardians have advanced _this_ far. When did they invent _instant communication_? Or did they imitate such from another source? If so, _which_? Has the Allfather known about this? Heimdall? Should I tell any of them? But what should I say if they asked where I got this piece of knowledge? Would they even listen, wrapped in preparations for Thor’s coronation as they are?

The reminder of _why_ I have been embroiled in this adventure sits thick and terribly bitter in my tongue. Not even my drink can assuage it.

The taste _worsens_ , in fact, when she shows me “the internet.”


	16. Internet

Atlanta shows me _many, many things_ on “the internet.” From a far-broader version of the “text messaging,” to a “search engine” that can show a mind-boggling amount of variety in information, to _a single “website”_ which stores knowledge as though it were ready meals before a banquet, with all pieces interlocked.

The Midgardians – _the mortals_ – can exchange knowledge and information _so quickly_ and in various ways, unfamiliar to the æsir or other races in the Nine Realms.

Or are they truly unfamiliar about this advancement? It has been a while since the last time I visited anywhere beyond Asgard’s borders, after all, and the other realms have long been dissatisfied with Asgard’s rule in any case. If they are _familiar_ with this way of communication, this way of sharing and displaying knowledge and information….

My stomach roils. The arrival of our ordered food only worsens it.

I am no longer hungry.

How can I think of eating, now, anyway? Asgard might be invaded by another realm – _or all of them combined_ – in any time, and it will _not_ be prepared for a new kind of warfare! To think that I wanted to smuggle some frost giants to disrupt Thor’s coronation….


	17. Cameras

“ **What is wrong?** ” Atlanta sends me a text message, accompanied by a simple rendering of a round, worried face.

“ **Nothing,** ” I send back.

She raises an eyebrow. “ **You look sicker than before.** ”

I actually _feel_ myself blanch at that blunt assessment.

She huffs. “ **Let us talk about another topic,** ” she decides.

A change of topic is very, very good, I think, so I hastily point at one of the circles embedded behind her cell phones.

“ **It is a camera. The smaller circle is for the flash, for when you want to take a picture in the dark.** ”

“ **A camera?** ”

“ **A thing for taking pictures. Instantly. Almost wherever. Then you can develop the images and make them more or less tangible.** ”

I blank out after a handful of words.

Taking pictures. Instantly. Almost wherever.

The three concepts run and run and run in my head, worrying and frightening me more and more and more.

Cameras. On cell phones. To take instant pictures. Almost wherever.

Asgard imports a similar devise from Vanaheim. Priced exorbitantly. Used by the Royal Family and the Justice Court. Using a smidge of one’s life force each time it is activated.

But this young mortal _alone_ has _two_.


	18. Photographs

“ **Would you like to see a few photos I took in my last camping trip? The scenery was awesome.** ” Atlanta looks even more concerned than before, _for me_.

I let out a huff, and, at the same time, nearly spew out the bit of oolong tea that I drank. I am not sure if I wish to see undeniable evidence of what a camera could do. But if not I, then who else? Asgard needs to know; and if I presented an incomplete data to the Court, I would be laughed or sneered at for centuries to come, more than the usual, prince or not.

I motion her to go on.

She sends the cell phone in my hand picture after picture. Of a faraway mountain range, of a sun-drenched lake, of a vibrant meadow, of Atlanta walking among hip-high grass, of an older woman who shares some similarity to her enjoying a tree-swing like a child….

But I see images of armies marching in my head, faces of unknown commanders and generals who are to be wariest of, weapons and vehicles, possible weaknesses – all, done in these vivid colours and sharp clarity, _and available to everyone_.

Nausea swamps me.


	19. Photography

Being dragged to the “toilet” to vomit is _quite_ embarrassing, even some time after it happened. I felt truly like a child, and I _resent_ it.

There is something _much_ more pressing than my faulty, backfiring spell that caused this glitch in height, however.

“ **Teach me how to take a picture?** ”

“ **Are you sure? I do not want you to throw up again.** ”

“ **I am sure.** ”

And I _learn_. How to take a picture with both cell phones, how to adjust the settings, what setting to use for what environment or occasion, what to add to the cameras to sharpen the image or make an easier handling should the equipment be available; and, above all, about “ _photography_ ” itself: the _branch_ – not even an unpopular one – of vocation _and hobby_ which pertains closely to my future report to the Court.

“ **You would be a good photographer,** ” Atlanta comments when I show her my latest attempt to take a picture. “ **You could be an illusionist photographer. Showing people something while it is actually something else, just from a different angle. It is quite awesome!** ”

My heart falls on the “illusionist” part, and turns baffled on her praise of _that_.

She is _odd_.


	20. Fish

Atlanta, sadly, refuses to speak more on the matter of photography _until my food is finished_.

“ **Do not treat me like a child,** ” I grouse.

“ **You are a child,** ” she retorts.

“ **I just happen to be accidentally small,** ” I protest. And she… _laughs_.

“ **How? And do not say by genetics,** ” she writes, nonchalantly.

I huff. I do not know what “genetics” means; Allspeak cannot translate it well, like so many terms that she has been pouring out thus far; but I do know when I am laughed _at_. And this, when I was telling _the truth_.

Ignoring her laughing self, I tentatively pry apart the side of the fish dish that I ordered for myself with my eating knife, then dip a small chunk of its meat in the sauce which pools low on the platter. Before the morsel can reach my mouth, however, a dusky hand grasps my wrist and half-yanks it away.

I look up, meeting Atlanta’s shocked and angry glare.

“ **No knife near your face,** ” she types hurriedly with one hand, then practically shoves the cell phone’s screen in front of me.

I raise an eyebrow. “I eat with my knife, Atlanta.”

She refuses to budge, unfortunately.


	21. Chopsticks

I never thought that a pair of little wooden sticks could be used as a torture devise. Yet it is what is happening to me, as Atlanta dilligently teaches me how to use those sticks – “chopsticks,” she said – instead of my perfectly usable, perfectly safe eating knife. It is so tideous and ridiculous! Worse, my hunger has returned, and I have to swallow back my saliva _numerous times_ as well as trying to quiet my dissatisfied stomach. Can she not teach me _after_ I have eaten my fill? I would oblige her most enthusiastically, then!

Worst, after a few errors – which splatter food everywhere, _including on our faces, forearms and tunics_ – she hands me a metal something that is vaguely shaped like a bent miniature of a trident.

And it is used practically the same as the “chopsticks” _and_ my eating knife, as she demonstrates it next.

And I can _clearly_ see that it can be used as a weapon, however small.

So why did she prevent me from _using mine for eating_?! Is it because I _look_ small? I can assure her _undoubtably_ that I retain my _adult_ mind!

Well, nearly adult, that is, but it does not matter.


	22. Alien Food

Using the “fork” – the mini-trident-like utensil – alongside my eating knife is the _compromise_ that I and Atlanta have reached, _at long last_.

_Only_ after our stomachs have made themselves known vociferously, and she realises that we have attracted curious and disapproving eyes.

Well, at least I can eat, now. And the fish is… good enough for my palate, complemented by its thin, sweet-sour sauce.

The fowl is thin and stringy, but the thick sweet-savoury sauce that coats it makes up for it, although it does not reach deep into the meat.

Both go well with my choice of drink, and I am satisfied with this experience.

Except that _I am still hungry_. The fish and fowl looked larger and fuller in the pictures!

Eh, Atlanta still has half of her meal – ` _Only one dish?_ ` – left, and she seems unable to finish it, somehow. Should I… help…?

I look up, intending to ask, desperate to sate my hunger and – hopefully – decrease my seiðr-depletion-born fatigue.

My eyes meet her astonished ones, which often flicker towards my finished platters.

And then she orders me a bowl of _the worm-like food_.

She grins at my bug-eyed stare. “New place. New food,” she signs.

` _Damn._ `


	23. Music

Abandoning the soothing temperature and illumination of the eatery for the overwhelming heat and sunlight outside makes my stomach roil _again_. It is fortunate, in hindsight, that I did not feel full even after I ate the dish Atlanta ordered for me.

Well, it is even more fortunate that the dish, after all, did not contain _worms_. It was even the tastiest dish that I ate there. But I shall never tell anybody that. In any case, it has no relation to my current predicament, namely my unsettled, overheated body.

Atlanta is dragging me somewhere else _again_. In this heat. And she only said that I might like “it.”

And then, we arrive before a canopied stage with several costumed Midgardians on it.

They, even from afar, have been blaring out some kind of… _noise_ … with some poor musical instruments. And people are jigging and yelling along – ` _Surely it is not singing?_ ` – in front of us, facing them, ignoring us completely.

It unpleasantly reminds me of the “songs” that people – _including Thor_ – usually “sing” in taverns in Asgard. And it only makes the intensity of the heat and light all round me _increase_.

No, I _definitely_ do _not_ like “it.”


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tag/title suggested by **Trickster32** – thank you! And you all, folks, please feel free to suggest words and/or phrases (AO3 tags, preferably) which I could use as more fuel for this adventure. ☺  
> And again, thank you to those of you who spared some good thought/vibe and/or prayer for me. I managed to go past this chapter relatively well.  
> Rey

I… do not really recall, how I came to be here: lying on a thin mattress in a small, dimly lit, flimsy room which smells sharp and vaguely unpleasant. My head throbs mightily and spins like a children’s toy. My sight wavers and dims erratically. My heart – _my whole body_ – pounds like a racing horse. My blood feels like it is boiling inside. My breathing is as laboured as after a full day of exercise. And Atlanta is fidgeting beside me, wringing her hands and looking quite distressed. – What happened?

I need to ask her. However, Opening my eyes feels quite tiring, let alone opening my mouth, forget moving my limbs. Trying to recall the sequence of events that sent me to this odd place, state and situation makes my insides roil worse, as well, so I stop doing all those. The only thing left to do, then, is to close my eyes again and try to calm my insides down from their inexplicable frenzy.

Unfortunately, I am poked and prodded all too soon, with things that a white-uniform-clad Midgardian explains as, in short, health-related measuring tools.

And then the… healer?… proclaims that I am “recovered enough.” But _from what_?


	25. Family

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, once more, to **Trickster32** for suggesting this tag/title to me. ☺ - Rey

The healer lets me linger in the tiny infirmary. (“Get your wits together, kid,” is what she said.) So I do. The place is tiny and smells odd, indeed, but it offers dim light and cool if dry air, two things that I severely need.

Come to think of it again….

“ **Did I faint from the heat?** ” I ask Atlanta through her second “phone” which is still in my possession, ignoring my own heated cheeks and wounded pride. It would not be the first instance, anyway, and I was ridiculed horribly at home for such, compared to here.

Her firm nod and even-more-upset look answer it undeniably.

I sigh. “ **My apologies for alarming you so.** ”

She trains _that look_ on me, and I… feel odd – guilty, somehow, and bemused, definitely.

Before I can give some elaboration, however, she cuts in with a “text” of her own. “ **Where is your home? Let me accompany you.** ”

I am… taken aback, and even more bemused.

Then she adds, “ **It must be too much for you out here right now. If your family is okay with it, we can cool down at your place and continue from before.** ”

But…. Home. Family. Asgard. ` _Oh. No._ `


	26. Ice Cream

I managed to turn the request around, fortunately, by inquiring if Atlanta’s family would mind me being a guest in their home for the day. This would not only save me from any more awkwardness regarding my current situation, but also allow me to delve more into what Midgard is like nowadays.

And, however askance she looks at me, Atlanta _agrees_. “ **My mother is rarely home. I can bring my friends home as long as I tell her. I will when we are on the way. Now let me buy us an umbrella. Stay here. I will be quick. Call the nurse if you feel faint again or anything.** ”

She is gone and back again swiftly, indeed. She is toting not only one item as she implied, however.

“I-C-E-C-R-E-A-M,” she signs, grinning, while showing me two cups held in a transparent bag beaded with condensation.

Still grinning, she reseats herself beside me and hands one of the cups over. Like this, she looks painfully like Thor in his better moments….

Dismissing the thought, I pry open the cup and dig the tiny wooden blade that she hands me next into the brown, savoury-and-fragrant-smelling, solid-looking, food-like thing, imitating her. And…, “Whoa.”


	27. Ice

Atlanta does not stop grinning like a fool, even some time after we left the infirmary. I look foolish, I suppose, hence her grinning whenever she glances at me, which is more often than before, perhaps fearing another relapse. But strangely, I do not feel laughed _at_.

A boon for me, really, because it is indeed _hard_ , surprisingly, to stop relishing in the taste of the “ice cream” that she gave me long after it was finished, however silly I might look while doing so. The taste itself was not that good; there was a sharp, not-food-like residue left after each swallow of the semi-solid thing; but the food itself _was made from ice_! How do _the mortals_ achieve such feat in a place this hot? Is there any other ice-based food that I might encounter _and try_?

` _Ice…._ ` Did a jötun once come here and teach them? But why would any of those war-mongering brutes teach the mortals that they sought to invade centuries ago? Let alone anything as mundane as what Atlanta claimed as “just a small dessert.” But, if not….

“What are you thinking?” Atlanta interrupts, nudging me on the side.

“I-C-E,” I sign back, smiling reluctantly.


	28. Snow and Ice

“ **Let me bring you to an ice-skating rink, then,** ” Atlanta “texts” me as we take a brief halt under the porch of another “restaurant.”

I blink, and reread the text displayed on the screen of my temporary phone. Then, impatient for clarification, I simply point at the “ **ice-skating** ” term on it.

“ **You slide and dance on a sheet of ice,** ” is her explanation, before she tugs me along to continue our way with new purpose.

I fail to notice anything along our path. I do not even notice the overwhelming heat and sunlight very much. I am… flabbergasted.

The “ice-skating rink” that Atlanta promised to bring me to sounds like a place of entertainment. But… entertainment… _on the ice_? I never thought that Midgardians would enjoy _ice_. Do they not remember still the eternal winter that the jötnar tried to bring to this realm? Or have they been too disorganised to pass on the warnings and ancient wisdoms, which could be achieved even by such a short-lived race?

Can they even _survive_ staying in ice-maintaining temperature for longer than heartbeats? Let alone for _entertainment_?

But…, ` _What about snow? Thor and I loved playing snowballs when we visited Vanaheim that winter…._ `


	29. Umbrellas

“ **We take a bus to go to the ice rink,** ” Atlanta informs me as we stand beneath a canopied platform, which also shades over rows of simplistic metallic seats.

Not wanting to reveal my total ignorance of nearly everything here, including what she has just said, I only incline my head. Then, casually as I can, I proceed to scrutinise the “umbrella” – the black, collapsible, portable, vaguely conical item which she used to shelter the two of us from the sunlight while we were walking here, which she now keeps under her arm in its folded-small state. This item would be rather useful for me back home. Using it would gain me even more mockery, however.

This item is _also_ one piece of evidence that Midgardians _might_ have invented an icy environment, an icy dessert, and a way to enjoy both, all by themselves. And if they could invent an item _just for convenience_ like this simple but rather fiddly mechanism, or any of the aforementioned two that are for mere _entertainment_ ….

` _What would they have invented if they really put their minds to it? What about items for warfare? Espionage? Training?_ `

The implications are disturbing, to say the least.


	30. Public Transpotation

As a prince of the realm, whenever I need or wish to go anywhere outside of the palace, I need not share my means of transportation with anybody else. Not even with my family members, sometimes.

As a traveller and explorer to various parts of the Nine Realms, I often utilise my seiðr to transport myself and my belongings, also whomever and/or whatever I wish or need to transport along with me. It is simply safer and more practicable than asking round and trying to learn the ins and outs of the world in depth, especially when I have little time or wish to explore.

Given those, I am yet to know what boarding a public transportation is like. And given how Atlanta is towing me towards a large, _packed_ vehicle which has just halted before us, I am about to find out.

And what an experience it is! Sitting on an unclean, smelly, half-broken, largely unpadded seat, shoulder to elbow with total strangers, _tightly surrounded_ by at least fifty of them, breathing dry, rather stale air that is filled with lots of odors, _for more than a quarter of a candlemark_. Worse, the vehicle shakes and swings _so much_.


	31. Ice Skating

The flat, rounded patch of sleek ice that is the “Ice rink” offers a _somewhat_ better experience. It is rather full of warmly dressed Midgardians slipping, sliding and weaving about, but the low temperature masks the smells to a tolerable degree, and… well, it is cold, and I have a secret fondness of cold things.

I do not wait for Atlanta to borrow the full gear for the two of us. By observing the “skaters” alone while waiting for our turn at the lending booth, I already have a good idea on how to don the “skate” boots and how to stay upright on the ice. And those are the only concerns that I need to bother myself with, aside from having to don boots which have gone through however many pairs of feet throughout this day alone.

Well, in reality, staying upright on the ice is indeed the easiest thing to do. Trying to move about on a pair of blades on the very, very sleek surface, however….

Worse, Atlanta – who is in full gear but sitting on the sidelines – is aiming her phone’s camera at me.

Worst, she is _laughing at me_.

But… well… once I master movements….


	32. Milkshakes

The “photographs” and one “video” that Atlanta took of my attempts on the ice are… blush-worthy, I have to admit, as I browse through them at the end of our time on the “ice rink.” I am forbidden to erase them from the phone, sadly, but her bribe for not doing so is too tempting to ignore, especially since hunger is hounding me again in earnest.

Ironically, she uses “milkshake” as the bribe, which turns out to be the drink that I did not manage to barter for with my seiðr-sculpted trinket at the beach. And its taste is as exoticas its smell: savoury, sweet, fruity – and, above all, _cold_ with tiny ice chunks in it.

Still, despite the unexpected achievement of my earlier goal, my thoughts are not on the drink that I am nursing.

No, they are wholely focused on the photographs and video that continuously parade before my mind’s eye.

Seeing myself as a rather small child with my own eyes is jarring, to say the least. Seeing myself without Thor nearby is even more so.

And I cannot help but wonder if I was ever that… _happy_ – Unrestrainedly joyful, like in those images – during my childhood.


	33. Home

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thank you to **Trickster32** for supplying this prompt/tag/title for this chapter! ☺ - Rey

It is fortunate that Atlanta’s residence turns out not to be far from our last destination, limiting my exposure to Midgard’s public transportation.

It is even more fortunate that, according to her, there is nobody there, as her mother has been away since yesterday, and might not be back until at least three days hence. – I do not know yet of any protocol dealing with being a houseguest in a common Midgardian’s private residence, which I must employ if her mother is there. The ignorance might lead to me being impolite or crass by accidence, and I would hate it.

Well, given the size, style and outward quality of the house and grounds, “common Midgardian” might not be apt to describe Atlanta’s family. In Asgard, they could have been of minor nobility.

Interestingly enough, Atlanta does not formally welcome me once we are on the yard in front of the residence, nor as we enter the house proper past the thick, well-polished wooden front door. Instead, she spreads her hands in the universal sign of welcome as we arrive at _her bedroom_. – And is it not a sputter-worthy moment, to be invited right to a woman’s bedroom on first acquaintance!


	34. Gender Issues

“ **Will your mother not be angry that you invited a stranger into your bedroom?** ” I ask through a text message. The two of us just took an awkward self-picture together, _in Atlanta’s bedroom_ , to be sent to her mother, and I am worried of some reprisal from the older woman _towards me_ for her daughter’s temerity.

And the said daughter _laughs_ at my legitimate concern. “ **I am 15. You are 8 or 9 or even 7. She will only be angry if we wreck the room or the house in some way or invite an unapproved adult in.** ”

I almost succeeded in willfully forgetting that I now look like a child….

But, in any case, she is _fifteen_! From what I remember from my visit a few centuries ago, Midgardian women were married and sometimes already had a child or two by this age. Ten-year-old boys were already learning their fathers’ trades in earnest, as well, starting from when they were about eight. So, by mortal standard, I _should_ not be considered _this_ young.

Has Midgard changed _this_ much? If so, how can I ever encompass such a change in my report?

Forget being believed; the report would be _humongous_.


	35. Books

Admitting that I am hungry _again_ to my benefactor is very, very embarrassing. Unfortunately, Atlanta caught my discomfiture, _somehow_ , and refused to be placated. She agrees to take my trinkets as payment for all that she has done for me, but… well… there is nothing of value to anything I can make with my seiðr, while my honour demands that she receive things of equal value to what she has given me.

So I scour all the books in her private library for an idea, while she is ordering evening meals to be delivered to her residence, ignoring the “internet” for now since it would only make me more indebted to her by borrowing her phone.

Well, I gain _plenty_ of eclectic information, including accounts that Atlanta claims are only fictional stories. But there is little to inspire me to make sufficient gesture to repay her generocity.

Including _this latest gift_ , because I know that scholars tend to hoard their manuscripts jealously.

_Unless_ I would reveal at least some facet of myself and Asgard, that is.

Well, Atlanta seems to like fantastical tales, and Asgardians were known – even worshipped as deities – in a few parts of this realm centuries ago….


	36. Mythical Beings and Creatures

I sketch and colour various plants and animals native to Asgard on a few pieces of white, moderately thick parchment that Atlanta calls “good printing paper.” This activity is usually the purview of young children and women of all ages, but a bruised pride that nobody in Asgard will have to know is worthy as part of my repayment, in my opinion.

It is also worth the glowing joy and wonderment that almost instantly appear on Atlanta’s dusky face as she peruses the results, I admit.

“ **You are not from here, are you? Earth, I mean,** ” she writes on the piece of “paper” that we used in the first time we communicated through writing. She looks calm, non-confrontational, curious, and I can sympathise with the interest glimmering in her eyes, so I sign her a “Yes.”

“Where are you from?” she signs back; one of the sentences that she managed to teach me before we were derailed by other topics and concerns.

I hesitate, and not because the answer would be hard to spell out in her signage.

“Far,” I reply, at last, before purposefully telling her about Asgard’s inhabitants, flora and fauna, _without_ giving her most of the names.


	37. Origami

Atlanta fetches a packet of square “papers,” coloured on one side, at the end of my tale. She takes a green one from the lot, then makes certain folds – big and small, angled and not – on it.

“ **An origami frog,** ” she writes on the paper set aside for our communication at the end of her baffling activity, before showing me the… green thing… that was a piece of flat paper, set side by side with the picture of a similar animal on one of her highly coloured books.

“An… ori-gami frog?” I mouth, even more baffled than before.

She quirks a smile. “ **You fold paper in certain ways to make something from it. It is called origami. Good puzzle game. Easy to play too. You just need a piece of paper. You can even invent your own shapes.** ”

Well, I always like puzzle games. And I could teach the quieter children who like to congregate round me when I take a jaunt in Gladsheim this thing….

` _Damn. I thought I was repaying her. Now I am even more indebted to her for this._ `

But the excited look that might appear on those children’s faces once I introduce this to them….


	38. Hot Chocolate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did not realise until I had posted last chapter that it was the anniversary of me posting this story here, based on my timezone. So I would like to thank you who have read this meandering tale, and subscribed to it, and especially you who have left kudoses and comments. I greatly value your presence here, 'invisible' or otherwise, and also, for some of you, your encouragement and/or your discussion. This nearly aimless and rather fluffy tale was one of my attempts to distract myself from my health problems, and it remain so as I am slowly recovering from the said problems. So thank you for joining the ride with me, your patience with the thing, and even, for some, your passion for it.  
> Rey

“ **I should try to find an inn to bed down for the night,** ” I tell Atlanta through the paper that we use as conversation means, as I notice how late it is and how droopy she looks, after what feels like candelmarks long exploring the arts of “origami.”

She shakes her head. “ **Children without adults cannot rent a hotel room. Just stay here. I will tell my mother. She will not mind.** ”

She drags me to the kitchen before I can write even half of a protesting sentence.

I stop protesting when she puts the mouth of a “plastic bag” under my nose, and I inhale a fragrance similar to but sharper than the earlier “ice cream.”

“C-H-O-C-O-L-A-T-E,” she spells out, then signs, “Hot. Warm. Cold.” She shows me a few other ingredients, afterwards… and grins unashamedly when I accuse her of trying to bribe me to stay.

I never experienced a non-relative persisting to keep me company before. It feels… nice. Odd, though, and rather unnerving. I feel open and vulnerable, like rarely before.

And still, I stay, if only to try my hand at making variations of a “chocolate” drink together with my odd – if nice – new acquaintance.


	39. Sharing Clothes

I trail after an oft-yawning Atlanta to the storeroom of the house after our admitedly delightful experiment in the kitchen, feeling considerably better than before. My seiðr seems to like the “chocolate” drink, as it is revitalised faster after imbibing it than after devouring all the food that Atlanta has given me. I do not know why Atlanta looks droopier instead, but she seems healthy otherwise, so I worry not about it.

I worry instead of the clothes that she is digging out of a box labelled “ **7-10yrs** ” in the storeroom.

And indeed, she then _passes some of the clothes that are roughly my size to me_. I cannot avoid… this… without revealing that I can clean my clothes with my seiðr, and I would rather not do that at least for the time being, but… to be given _secondhand clothes_ – by a non-relative, and _by a mortal commoner_ , at that….

I truly hope that nothing of my _mis_ adventure on this new Midgard gets back to Asgardian ears. The reputation of the Royal Family would be ruined, otherwise, forget my own, and it would be far harder for me to sneak off somewhere in the future.

But, well, for now….


	40. Showers

Being shown how to operate the cleaning facilities as well as the privvy is as embarrassing as wearing secondhand attire, I find. Fortunately, Atlanta bowls over the awkwardness with a determinately blasé attitude.

Even more fortunately, I need not use my recovering seiðr to manipulate the body-cleaning contraption. And I need not go far to find a natural freshet to bath under! I only need to stand on a square of tiles and pull or push a toggle stick to have water instantly raining on me. When I feel dirty, sweaty and generally unclean like this, such a contraption is a boon, as I would not wish to wallow in a bathing pool or tub. The water that comes down from the mouth of the contraption is also unexpectedly clean, for being derived from deep in an inhabited settlement.

Atlanta greets me with a knowing smile when I return to her chamber. I fight not to blush under the gaze of her laughing eyes. I may have taken some more time than it was necessary to clean myself, standing under the artificial freshet…. Not to mention, I am now wearing her – or rather, judging from the cut, her brother’s – clothes.


	41. Sharing a Bed

“ **Where should I bed down for the night?** ” I ask through one of the phones when, finished with teasing me, Atlanta curls up in her bed, mostly hidden by her thick blanket and fluffy pillows, more than half asleep already.

She pats the area on the other side of the rather large bed, in answer.

I blanch, then flush.

“ **We are non-related. Moreover you are a woman and I am a man,** ” I type hastily and shove the screen before her sleepy face.

She snorts, to that, and fumbles the phone out of my hand. “ **Im a girl. Youre tiny. No woman man. Wanna sleep. Go sleep. Nothing will hapen. No time prepare guest room. No mind anyway. Always want little sib.** ”

Then she just… drops right into slumber, leaving me wide awake and gaping at her and the phone carelessly dropped on the patch of blanket near her hand.

` _What an insane woman. Did she not realise or care about what **will** happen to me once her mother finds out, if I lie **in her bed**?_`

Shaking my head, I grab pillows and blankets from the bed and make a nest on the floor.

It is safer, this way.


	42. Nightmares

Sensations, emotions and impressions that feel like echoes from the past haunt my slumber. Phantom touches, sounds, feelings and movements soak me through, familiar and yet so alien.

I am swimming in a thick liquid that does not drown me, that cocoons me comfortably. I am squeezed past a very tight thing, with the accompaniment of somebody howling in utter agony and misery. I am lying on an unforgivingly hard surface, too alone and too dry, flailing uselessly with weak limbs, crying out for a lost sanctuary.

I seek to touch and be touched by another, _very similar_ entity who is _always there_. I am drenched by immense power that does not seek to crush me, safe and secure and loved. I am nearly flattened as my tiny home is _bashed inward_ , squealing in shock and fright and pain in a voice unheard.

I am cradled in cool darkness, in a snug-but-not-confining room. I am suddenly, harshly exposed to light and dryness that hurt, also openness and lesser chill that scare, unsoothed. I am torn away agonisingly from ties that I cherish with all my little, fragile being, sent adrift in horribly vast emptiness.

I wake up with a shout.


	43. Milk

I am very, very, very grateful that Atlanta is deaf, therefore unable to hear me screaming and weeping like a babe seeking attention. She remains asleep in her bed, with only a patch of her hair and temple visible amidst the pillows and blankets.

Unwilling to chance another nightmare, I abandon my makeshift nest on the floor and leave the chamber for the kitchen. – In previous occurrences, I could soothe myself with a snack or a small drink. Hopefully, this time will be the same. I could do with a cup of iced chocolate, if there is nothing heavier available.

Unfortunately, as I find while rummaging in the pantry and kitchen cupboards, apparently Atlanta and I have spent most of the ingredients for the chocolate drink in our experiments before we went to bed. The only ingredient still available in a decent quantity is half a container of “plain fresh milk.”

` _Well, this will have to do._ `

I seat myself at the kitchen counter, pour all the milk into a large cup, then begin to sip at it.

I wish I did not.

With my mind still half-way caught in the lingering nightmare, the milk tastes like… something I knew.


	44. Pancakes

Desperately trying to distract myself, I retrieve Atlanta’s best communication devise and browse on the “internet” for something – _anything_ – that I can do.

I find many recipes for meals, drinks and snacks. Most are largely portioned, fiddly or too bizarre, however, or all three.

I resort to rummaging through the pantry and kitchen cupboards again, in the end.

And, in one of the cupboards that houses what seem to be ready-to-cook meals, I find boxes of “pancake mix,” _with a **simple** recipe “printed” on each box_.

Feeling frustrated and quite foolish, I nonetheless – gingerly – search for the needed utensils and additional ingredients, guessing half of which, and go through the steps on the recipe for one of the boxes of “pancake mix.” It seems to be a common meal on Midgard, or at least on this part of Midgard, so I should be _safe enough_ in this distraction. As for the devise that I have borrowed and this box of ready-to-cook meal that I have taken, both without permission…. Well, I shall think of something to repay Atlanta with for them, later.

_Not now_. Because the nightmare is _still_ clinging to me, _and I am **tempted** to drown in it_.


	45. Disney Movies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Credit for this chapter goes to the fanfiction [_Finally Belonging_](https://archiveofourown.org/series/654305) by **Yodelling Prospector**. I got the inspiration for the film from that excellent, excellently non-mainstream story. Go read it! ☺ - Rey

“ **You look weird. Had a nightmare?** ” Atlanta writes on the paper with one hand, while the other shovels in one of the “pancakes” that I ended up making. I give her a shruggy look, while pretending to enjoy my own “pancake,” which has the unfortunate unpleasant aftertaste in it, similar to the “ice cream” that she bought for us yesterday.

She gives me a knowing glance, still.

“ **Want to watch a movie? Sort of a play recorded on video. Maybe it can cheer you up.** ”

A story. Well, it can be yet another distraction to be had. So I sign her a “Yes.”

Even before the “movie” begins, however, my heart already plummets _lower_.

The “movie” is titled “ **Frozen**.”

And, as I watch the play unfold on the screen of Atlanta’s “TV,” I grow more and more uneasy instead of less.

The story features an _ice-wielding princess_. The princess fears her ice powers, and so do other people around her, _including her parents_. She is bidden to hide her powers, even when she is queen, and the stifled potential bursts out violently at one point _because of it_.

The play ends happily enough, _but still_!

` _A jötun on the throne…._ `

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that _Frozen_ was released in 2013 while _Thor_ was in 2011. I am claiming artistic licence for this. I have never watched _Frozen_ , truth be told, but the story is pretty apt for Loki from what I know.


	46. Ice Powers

“Not good?” Atlanta asks in her signage at the end of the play, looking concerned.

I shake my head, too fraught to reply likewise, let alone to explain why.

She asks, nonetheless.

“ **Ice powers,** ” I write at last, at length, on our conversation paper, which is half-way filled by now.

She frowns. “ **I wish I had ice powers. You saw what Elsa could do. She is not evil.** ”

I scowl. ` _How can I explain how evil the jötnar are? Her ancestors were nearly enslaved by them, and she is **defending** them!_`

I shoot her a disbelieving look when she taps the list that she has just made on the paper with her dark-pink “crayon.”

  * **• ice cream  
• ice skating  
• blended ice  
• ice cubes  
• frozen meals  
• freezer  
• snowballs, snowmen, snow angels  
• snowboarding, tobogganing, sledging, skiing  
• ice statues and slides  
•looking at snowfall outside the window  
• snowflakes under the microscope  
• pictures of snow-capped mountains, trees and roofs**



I do not know what half of the list pertain to, but her message is clear enough.

“ **Icy weather and frostbite can kill you,** ” I write. “ **You can also slip on ice and hurt yourself.** ”


	47. Frost Giants

Atlanta gazes into my eyes with discomfiting perceptiveness.

“ **You dislike a specific person with such powers,** ” she writes.

I sigh. ` _Disgusted with, more likely._ ` But I sign her a “Yes,” reluctantly.

She makes a humming noise, then writes, “ **Might I know who?** ”

“ **Frost giants,** ” I reply, and huffingly continue on the prompting of her nudging my foot with hers, “ **Huge. Brutish. Savage. More monstrous animals than sentient creatures. Infamous for their mastery over ice. Invaded this world centuries ago. Wanted to conquer it and make it as ever-wintry as their own.** ”

She frowns at my deliberately scant and choppy explanation. Then, “ **Could you draw me a frost giant?** ”

I give her a _look_.

But _she returns it_.

` _Well, if she **really** wants it…. I can certainly count this as a part of my repayment. I **do** need to extend myself, with this, like she has been doing for my sake._`

So I draw her Laufey, “king” of those beasts, as I remember it from the few sketches I saw on written accounts and reports of the Asgard-Jötunheim war: red eyes, blue skin, white scars, hulking mostly-naked body, black claws and teeth, monstrous face and expression, and all.

` _Damned savage beasts._ `


	48. Jötunheim

If I thought that Atlanta would be put out by the look of the monster and stop pursuing the topic, I would have been severely mistaken.

“ **What is their world like? Have you been there?** ”

“ **I have only ever read and heard about it from reports and accounts of the war between my realm and theirs. It is a very cold wasteland. Only the natives can survive there without freezing. My people had to wear very thick protection against the weather. Your people would have died within heartbeats of stepping foot on it.** ”

She frowns _at me_ instead of at the explanation on the paper.

“ **But you love cold things and places.** ”

I purse my lips. – My cold-loving preferences and tendencies have long been quite an oddity in Asgard, like many other aspects in my life, habits, instincts and body. Various individuals and groups have remarked upon it, usually in curious manner, if not outright derogatory or suspicious in respect – _or fear_ – of my station, and I _always_ find it discomfiting, often distasteful.

Thankfully, she seems to pick up on my reluctance to expand on this matter, and instead asks more about Jötunheim.

For once, I _gladly_ talk about it.


	49. Asgard

Strangely enough, despite my well-rooted reluctance to talk about the jötnar and their realm, I find myself even more reluctant to talk about Asgard, when Atlanta inquires about it for the second time in our acquaintance. But, in the same spirit of repayment as before, I comply.

As I already mentioned the flora, fauna and some unnamed individuals living there, now I expound a little about the humongous, magically treated chunk of asteroid which makes up my homeworld, the warrior-centric society, the superficial similarities we hold to “humans,” the palace and the homes of commoners, and some harmless anecdotes. I slide away as smoothly as I can from any mention of the Royal Family, let alone my identity, and talk instead about the mundane jobs that support the society.

“ **You seem to dislike living there,** ” is what the young woman writes at the end. Given that, I feel perfectly reasonable to give her an incredulous look.

“ **All that, and you remark about how I might lead my life there?** ”

Well, now she gives _that look_ right back, to my irritation and bewilderment.

Then, “ **You are my friend. Of course I focus on you.** ”

I can only gape to that, floored.


	50. The Nine Realms

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I claim artistic licence for the differences in the realms, their rulers and their histories that are in line with neither the original Norse lore nor Marvel-verse. These are part of Rey-verse, my own set of headcanons. I hope you do not mind. - Rey

In an attempt to extricate myself from the awkward moment that follows Atlanta’s blunt, candid proclamation, I expound about the whole Nine Realms of Yggdrasil without being asked. About the “realms” sometimes referring to not only the nine planets or asteroids that bear the respective names but also the whole galaxies which are centred on those planets or asteroids; about the invisible-to-naked-mundane-eye big and small paths which connect the Nine with each other, shaped like a tree; and about the placement of each of the Nine on the Tree, with Midgard right on the middle and Asgard on top.

She attends the tale, as if spellbound, and I find myself terrifically pleased about it.

Then again, in Asgard, people her age would rather learn their parents’ crafts than studying scholarly matters or listening to tales unrelated to gossip, fights, battles and warriorly exploits. So, usually, my audience are only young children with short attention span and limited diction. But, with Atlanta, I need not simplify my words, and she is even asking _intelligent questions_ about the Nine, presently.

I only wish that I did not have to conceal so much from her, in an effort to keep my identity secret.


	51. Kings and Queens

“ **Midgard is the only realm with divided governments among the Nine,** ” I write in answer to Atlanta’s question about the individual rulerships of the Nine. “ **The other realms are ruled by each a monarchy, or no longer inhabited.** ”

“ **King Odin rules over Asgard in particular and the Nine as a whole,** ” I expound when she inquires further. “ **After the Asgard-Vanaheim war, some time before the Asgard-Jötunheim war, King Njord retains his rule in Vanaheim under Asgard, but his children were sent away. His only son Frey is ruler over Álfheim, while Frey’s younger sister Frigga was sent to Asgard to become the then Prince Odin’s bride and future queen. Frey’s twin sister Freya was free to choose where she wanted to dwell, and she chose to split her time between Asgard, Vanaheim and Álfheim.** ”

I tap the drawing of Laufey that I made when she inquires over Jötunheim’s rulership, and shake my head when she next asks after Niflheim. “ **Dead realm. A mad titan named Thanos once wrecked it until nothing can live there anymore.** ”

She regards me in thoughtful silence for a long, long while after my next explanation of Asgard helping to subdue Svartalfheim. Somehow, I feel uneasy.


	52. King of Asgard

At length, Atlanta writes, “ **Tell me what you know about the King of Asgard?** ” and my heart suddenly feels like the heaviest sack of metal ingots, falling right past my bare toes between one beat and the next.

The unease was warranted, it turns out.

And somehow, I find it the hardest, to speak about _my own father_ in his role as king.

Well, the father who has not acted much like one to me or Thor in quite some time… _but still_!

I do my best to centre myself, take a long, surreptitious inhale of the artificially cooled air, then begin my recitation. – Odin is an old, wise king who has led Asgard since the death of his father Bór and his elder brothers Kúl, Vili and Vé in the Asgard-Jötunheim war more than twelve centuries ago. He is a reticent and firm king, but not unkind even to the least of the commoners when he does speak. Asgard – and the Nine, by extension – experiences prosperous peace under his rule, unlike under the rule of his father.

Atlanta’s gaze never leaves mine, all the while.

Somehow, I suspect that she is judging _my father_ instead of me.

But _why_?


	53. Lemon Cakes

Atlanta gives me just a reserved, thoughtful little smile when I, for once, confront her bluntly about my suspicion.

Then she drags me to the kitchen.

She wants us to _bake a cake_ , of all things.

After such a weighty discussion, fraught with anxiety in my part.

Or did she somehow realise my state of mind and seek to alleviate it?

I feel both humbled and indignant, on that thought. ` _I am not a child, to be coddled so!_ `

Still, I help her prepare the ingredients and mix them into an admitedly nice-smelling batter for a “lemon cake.” We are occupied in our thoughts for the duration of the task, but thankfully it is not a tense or otherwise awkward silence.

And, as Atlanta draws the cake out of the oven, it is the turn of my palate and stomach to be grateful. – The steam that wafts lazily away from it smells savoury, sweet and sour, alike yet unlike the “milkshake” that I drank in what feels like an eternity ago. And, as I bite into a small piece of it despite the lingering heat, I find that the fragrance does not lie.

If only all fraught discussions ended thus….


	54. Online Shopping

It is _beyond_ embarrassing to admit to the overly kind and indulgent hostess that her larder has been depleted by her penniless houseguest. And _that_ , without me admitting that one of the instances of depletion happened because I was attempting to soothe myself from a nightmare. Repaying her with all the recountings does not seem enough, now, despite its cost to my own self.

Atlanta does not seem bothered by it, nevertheless. “ **Let me show you another function of the internet,** ” she “texts” her second phone, which she has just stuffed into my hand. Then, while regularly pushing slices of lemon cake towards me, she shows me how to purchase items, commissions and services without having to go anywhere, _also_ without the intermediary of any other person. And the choices are nearly _infinite_ , as long as one can pay for them and they do not happen to be false.

So, even the least commoner here could “shop online,” as long as they have access to the “internet” and have some “virtual money.”

A quick, clean, easy way to purchase things.

Something that, in other realms, could only be enjoyed by those who can afford servants and/or slaves.

This is… _surreal_.


	55. Winter

While waiting for the ordered foodstuffs and other items to arrive, Atlanta and I occupy ourselves with going through her varied and multitude collection of books.

The young woman has at least five books open before her on her desk, so I ask, and she says that they are references for the essay that she is writing for her “correspondence education.”

How ridiculously and ironically _relieved_ I am that I recognise the term, and in fact have conducted part of my seiðr study in that manner, when I was unable to attend my tutors physically on Álfheim and Vanaheim.

Perhaps to get rid of my inquiries, she then piles books before me. From two large series of stories which I might like, or so she claims.

So I read. And I feel disturbed, _again_.

“ **This book features an ‘evil witch’ throwing a world into a century of ever-winter. How could you say that winter and ice powers are good, then?** ” I wave _The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe_ before her face, once I am finished reading it.

She gives me a displeased look, most likely for disrupting her so rudely, but I ignore it, far too agitated to care.


	56. Winter Olympics

“ **It is just a story, Loki,** ” Atlanta writes, with palpable exasperation. Then she rummages in one of her drawers, feeds a thin disk into a boxy devise that lies beneath her television set, and plays a recording of… not a play, it seems, but some kind of sporting event.

No. Sporting event _after_ sporting event. _Held on the ice_. So many. Shown through snippets of – presumably – their best moments. Attended so enthusiastically by both competitors and audience.

And Atlanta claims that this series of sporting events, the “winter olympics,” is held regularly, participated by nearly _all_ countries on Midgard that experience wintertime.

“ **We are cautious of winter. But even summer can kill if we are not prepared. Now that we are much more advanced, we relish in winter even more,** ” she continues at the end of the recording. “ **Lewis got some of the inspiration for The Chronicles of Narnia from old tales which put much caution on winter. Similar to Tolkien’s Arda Legendarium.** ” She pats the books that I have not yet read. “ **But even in those series, winter and cold weathers are not always bad.** ”

She quirks a smile, then. “ **My most favourite foods used to be winter foods.** ”


	57. Winter Solstice

“ **You do not have winter in Asgard?** ” Atlanta asks, perhaps noticing how I mull over “winter foods.”

I shake my head.

“ **Have you ever visited another place while it is wintertime?** ”

I nod.

“ **Did they fear winter?** ”

I shake my head, more hesitantly.

“ **Do they have winter festivities or meals?** ”

I nod, fighting an urge to squirm – whether from discomfort or embarrassment of my perfectly valid distaste of winter, I do not care.

“ **Did you enjoy your time there?** ”

I nod again, reluctantly, recalling the shenanigans that my child self and Thor’s got embroiled in Vanaheim, when Mother brought us there during wintertime to visit with Grandfather Njord. And how we revelled in the different ambience, temperature, clothing, games, foods, beverages…!

“ **It was winter solstice,** ” I reveal, unable to dam the flood of sweet memories of when everything was much simpler and more innocent, when Thor had much more time to spend with me instead of his friends, when he was much more perceptive and… loving. “ **My brother and I ate so many winterberries that we got sick for a whole day. But we did that again the next day, only to vomit on our grandfather during the solstice rite.** ”


	58. Bicycles

Atlanta seems to wish to capitalise on my lightening mood. Or, she has been carried away by my childhood tales of cavorting in wintry evergreen meadows and among the leafless trees. Either way, she drags me out of the house to, as she says it, “enjoy the open air.”

And her way of such is to teach me to ride a “bicycle” – a two-wheeled vehicle which moves through indirect foot power, pushing on a pair of sticks connected to a chain system.

I am very, very, very fortunate that I have a good sense of balance, despite my currently reduced state, and I can use my seiðr as a failsafe. As it is, I nearly fall over several times already while attempting to ride Atlanta’s old “kiddy” bicycle across the lawn!

Once I master it, however, the constant back-and-forth swinging and pushing motion of my legs feels rather peaceful, and so does the travel along the groomed and decorated gardens that encircle the house. Better yet, Atlanta is riding beside me on another, bigger “bicycle,” and it feels like the far quieter version of a companionable horse ride with Thor.

A good way to tamp down on my inexplicable homesickness.


	59. Croissants

It happens that the items that we ordered “online” have arrived at the house just as I am thinking of asking Atlanta to stop our laps on the bicycle round the house. I am pressed to help her carry half of the load to the pantry, like a servant, but at least I can get off the bicycle without having to think up excuses. – Well, the experience was quite enjoyable during the first thirty laps or so, but beyond that….

And now, Atlanta is cheerfully ushering me through the steps of _baking yet another food_. – Mother would be so amused with how much time I have spent in a kitchen, not only pillaging the foods but _also_ making them….

Well, at least, here, I need not compete with the likes of Thor and Volstagg for the best bits of the food on offer. And the “croissant” that Atlanta has us bake now does taste exotically good, with layers of rich, savoury flour and various fillings.

Better yet, like with the chocolate drink, I can implement my own variations to the original recipe in yet another series of experiments that my hostess _heartily condones_ and in fact _participates in_. How enjoyable!


	60. Vehicles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My apologies to the author of _A Friend for a Week_ and to you all, readers. I retracted the "inspired by" tag for this story, because, along the way, my erlier plan changed rather drastically, and _Midget_ is by now unrecognisable from before, and I did not wish to mislead anybody by keeping the tag there. Who knows, someday I might work out a story that is truly inspired by that marvellous fic….  
> Rey

Atlanta shows me her display cases, placed prominently in the house’s vestibule, with one of her arms laden with a trayful of croissants and me picking the said croissants off of it regularly to eat under her urgings. The first case shows her badges, decorated cups – “trophies,” she calls them, and they are not the results of a successful hunt – and pieces of paper with writings and her name on it which she calls “awards and certificates.” She tells me their stories, through a mixture of signage and texts, but her heart does not seem to be in it, so I urge her to move onwards to another case.

And she transforms back into her animated self.

` _If I were she and my parents displayed my achievements so prominently, I would be so proud and happy._ `

I pay close attention to her explanation of the miniatures of vehicles displayed inside the case, letting the private thought remain private, wishing to repay her latest care of me thus.

It becomes far easier to do, the longer I listen, as I am honestly _awed_ by the sheer number of variety of vehicles that Midgardians _alone_ have invented throughout the _decades_ – not centuries.


	61. Films

Atlanta claims that there are more varieties of “movies” that one can choose than even vehicles. The “Disney movie” that we watched is just one “movie” among many, from that “production house” alone, and there are at least _hundreds of thousands_ of “production houses” world-wide, as well as the “genres” and the “movies” themselves.

I am… fortunately?… numb to such shocks, by now.

And, of course, when she offers me to watch movies from a different “genre,” I accept.

She sets us up in her chamber with six “Star Wars movies,” a meal for each, and the remaining croissants.

I forget about the food when the first “movie” plays, which is oddly the fourth in the series.

I am riveted yet disturbed by the end of the second “movie,” which is the fifth.

And at the end of the third, which is the sixth, my heart feels laden with conflicting emotions, all generated by _three plays of unreal situations_.

I shiver.

Midgardians’ imagination is a dangerous element, and they have been letting it run rampant _everywhere_ and through _everything_. Nowhere else inside or outside the Nine have I found such varied tales, played so well in evoking thoughts and emotions.


	62. Language of Flowers

I plead off watching the remaining “movies.”

Thankfully, Atlanta relents. She leaves me in peace, again browsing her eclectic collection of books.

Hoping that I have chosen a safer topic, I pick up a book titled _The Language of Flowers_ and discreetly, cautiously peruse it.

Only Mother knows that I love flowers, from their blooms and fragrances to studies about them, as far as I know. I even swore her to secrecy, and she went with it willingly for my sake.

For a very, very good reason.

The both of us know that flowers as well as other “light, delicate things” are the purview of the womenfolk, and I have been called ergi often enough behind my back.

But, interestingly, here, in this so-called “backward” realm, there is a whole set of meanings in a piece or a bouquet of flowers given and received by _both_ men and women!

It is a delicate, secretive language of fragrant signs and pleasing visual cues, and I find myself loving it.

I shall copy this book for Mother _and_ myself, should my hostess allow it.

I care not that this language is not well-known world-wide, also outdated, according to Atlanta.

I love it.


	63. Flowers

“ **Do you want to visit a flower seeding ground?** ” Atlanta asks back when I ask if I can twice copy the language-of-flowers book.

“ **No need to copy the book. We can buy two of it on the way,** ” she says when I give her my ascent.

“Buy?” I mouth, puzzled. But I am soon distracted, as she shows me pictures of small flowering vines, bushes and trees arrayed on racks, beds and vertically cylindrical things called “pipes.”

The varieties of the flowers _should not_ surprise me, by now, but they still _do_.

And, even though we must take a two-hour ride in yet another “bus,” the destination alleviates my discomfort thoroughly.

Colours, shapes and fragrances mingle with each other in a chaotic but beautiful mess, all within a not-too-cool, not-too-hot transparent structure called a “greenhouse.” I do my best to slip in-between the many greeneries, relishing in “swimming” amidst the blooms.

This time, my spell-born child stature and my native androgynous looks truly benefit me, as well as being in a realm where mentions of the Asgardians must have faded long ago, _and I am glad of it_.

Better yet, I get a crown of fresh flowers at the end!


	64. Cool

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title/prompt/tag suggested by **Trickster32** – thank you! ☺

Atlanta and I are ensconced at a particularly shady nook in the greenhouse as the sun sets, enjoying meals that she bought from the small restaurant that is set up there. Breezes from what may be discreet ventilation holes cool me down nicely after such exercion in the sun, added on by a set of large wind-making blades whirring on a pivot overhead.

Then again, I am drinking iced “cocktail” – sadly non-alcoholic – and dining on “yoghurt-on-bread,” “chicken-sticks with cheesy mayonnaise dip,” cold fruit salad and chocolate ice cream. None of which is warm in the slightest, and all of which were suggested by my benefactor.

I should have been worried, perhaps, that Atlanta seems to know me so well after only about one-and-a-half days of acquaintanceship, enough to suggest dishes that I might _prefer_ , not only like. But my mood has been buoyed greatly by my sojourn amidst the flowers, and she does not seem to mean ill to me, so I _choose_ to let the titbit of observation go, _for now_.

Because for now, there are five cool dishes to enjoy, a cool shade to relish, and a cool, peaceful atmosphere to soak in after such an… interesting day.


	65. Single Parents

“ **Will your parents not be worried? You have been gone for 2 days,** ” Atlanta texts her second phone, which is once more in my possession, after we have snuggled into our beds for the night.

“ **They know,** ” I text back. A blatant lie, doomed to be forever unproven.

Favour for favour, still. “ **Will your mother not be angry with me joining you here and drying up your resources for 2 nights already? What about your father?** ”

“ **Mom is a single parent,** ” she writes, and I can hear her shift in the bed; rather restlessly, I would imagine. “ **No father. I do not think I need a father. She does not think she needs a husband. She is never married and she said she never wants to be. She values her freedom.** ”

` _She is never married…._ ` I wince inwardly. ` _Atlanta is a bastard._ ` What a fate to have befallen an innocent babe. It is the worst stigma a child can have in Asgard, aside from being the adopted child of a total stranger, for pity instead of for skills and honour no less, and being disabled by birth or childhood accident.

Then she asks, “ **How many parents do you have, actually?** ”


	66. Orphans

I am quite tempted to claim myself as an orphan. It would insult my parents, however, if this part of my sojourn on Midgard were ever found out. So I tell Atlanta about my parents, as she requested by implication, but in general terms.

I do not tell her about Thor, nevertheless.

“ **If you would not mind, I would be interested in a tale of your birth and early childhood,** ” I write at the end of my narrative.

I hear her sigh. Then she sits up in bed, so I mimic her.

“Tell nobody,” she signs, while giving me a serious, penetrating stare that is… rather impressive, for one of her age and level of experience, then continues via text messages between the phones:

“ **I am actually an orphan. Mom was best friends with my birth mom. But my birth mom was never married too. I was part of her experiment. She was a geneticist. She died in a car crash when I was 3. She died protecting me from the impact. I became deaf after that. My sight is not quite good either after that.** ”

` _Oh._ ` I stare at the texts. ` _Oh. Oh._ `

I cannot decide what to feel.


	67. Adoption

Atlanta’s birth resulted from what I suspect was a _medical experiment_. She is _fatherless_ , no less, as in not knowing even who her father – _her root_ – was. And then she was adopted by a _non-relative_ as a small child, who would not be able to show appreciable skills and/or fame that would bring honour to the family of the adopter, therefore countering the stigma of the adoption somewhat.

_But_ , although a rather absentee adoptive mother from my impression thus far, the woman who has been raising Atlanta _does_ take pride in her daughter’s achievements….

` _Or are all those badges of honour displayed prominently in the vestibule Atlanta’s way of bringing honour to her adoptive mother’s name?_ `

I swallow back some bile.

Seen from any angle, Atlanta’s situation is _bad_ , in the perspective of Asgardian culture. But she seems to be accepted and rather contented here, in Midgard.

And that, surprisingly enough, especially given our brief acquaintanceship, makes me _glad_ that she is a Midgardian, not Asgardian.

Still, a tiny part of my heart wishes that she had been there with me as I grew up, to become _my_ friend – _only_ my friend, as the Warriors Three and Sif are Thor’s.


	68. Repayment

Atlanta is already lying down again and sound asleep, when I rouse myself from my contemplation, about to inquire if she has a counter-question for me. It is relieving; but, somehow, I also feel… bad, that I have _once more_ taken from her more than I give her – than I am _willing_ to give her.

The give-and-take situation really bothers me, by now. – I have never received charity like some poor commoner, and I would rather never experience that, but Atlanta _keeps giving_. Worse, she has never indicated how I might repay her. The little trinket that I mate an eternity ago _might_ pay for my luncheon on the first day of our acquaintanceship, but it surely cannot repay _all_ that she has done for me ever since. Meanwhile, this latest conversation could have been deemed some kind of repayment, at least in part, _if_ I did not end up benefiting more than she did.

The problem, in addition to our earlier conversation, keeps me awake and stirring restlessly in my bedding on the floor. Æsir do not need to sleep this often, but my seiðr is still not fully recovered, so–.

` _Ah. Seiðr. Yes. She ought to know…._ `


	69. Mages

Despite my determination to show Atlanta my seiðr as part of my repayment, it is still terribly hard to _actually_ do that. We have finished our morning meals of “waffles” with various accompaniments, and now Atlanta wishes us to explore not just _the_ library but _the nearest_ library – there are _many_ libraries in this city alone, she said! – while I am still dithering.

In the end, inspired by the many varieties of books that she promises to be available in the library, I show her a small, simplified reenactment of a scene from the first book of “the _Lord of the Rings_ series,” the only book from the set that I have read thus far, before we leave the house. I illusion myself as Gandalf the old mage, complete with an elderly man’s I-am-much-wiser-than-you-are voice and tone and ambience, although she can most likely only notice the ambience, then make small, faux fireworks leap out of my “staff.”

And she stands still, mesmerised. Not with my audacity to do seiðrwork in her home without permission, at that, nor with shock and scorn of my womanly ability, as far as I can tell – and I notice _a lot_.

What a _gift_!


	70. Acceptance

Atlanta and I end up not going to the library. But, for once, I do not rue the lost chance of reading more books.

Because she is already _riveted_ on my displays of illusion _alone_ , while I can do so much more.

We end up returning to the beach where I landed, and I make her numerous figurines of the plants and creatures that I talked about, by openly moulding sand with my seiðr into sandstone. Here, I also confess that my currently childlike stature is the result of a transportation spell gone awry.

I drench her with some summoned seawater – after shielding us with an illusion – when she smilingly remarks that my seiðr clearly knows best, and thus the unexpected effect has actually not been a mistake.

But I do gift her with a figurine of my _true_ self, when she asks for it.

I am only aware of my returning exhaustion when we are back in her home, _through my transportation spell_ , which she _insisted_ on trying, despite knowing that it is _seiðrwork_ and that I recently _failed_ at it.

Well, I have so little reason to be so _happily_ exhausted, to date.

Yet another gift from her….


	71. Legends

My fourth day on “Earth” – Midgard, as the Midgardians say it – is a lazy one, given my lingering state of contented exhaustion. I occupy myself with intellectually devouring more writings from Atlanta’s library, deflecting her profuse apologies for demanding seiðrworks from me without paying attention to the energy cost, while Atlanta herself dutifully conducts her own studies.

But she does not _only_ conduct her studies, apparently, ensconced at her desk as she has been, because then she makes a noise of surprised exclamation and rushes to me with an open book.

It is a book of “Norse legends.”

And there, the stories are… twisted, or simply bizarre.

Especially when it comes to my part.

Atlanta is not the only one who is horrified.

“ **Sleipnir is Odin’s steed, true, but he is NOT my child,** ” I hastily write on our conversation paper, clarifying the tall tales. “ **I know not of those purported to be my children or my spouses. I am not Odin’s blood-brother, either.** ” ` _No, just his second son._ ` “ **Ðeoric is one of Odin’s guards, true, but he has never sought to settle down with a wife, let alone one named Sygin. Most of all, I am NOT a jötun.** ”


	72. Mama Laufey

I am even more horrified when Atlanta points out a specific place on the current page.

“ **Laufey and Farbauti are NOT my parents,** ” I scroll on the paper, totally uncaring of my penmanship. “ **Furthermore, Laufey is a he, not a she, let alone a mother.** ” ` _No, Laufey is an **it**. Beasts do not recognise gender roles, except for mating purposes._` “ **I have but one brother, as well, and he is not named Helblindi or Býleisr.** ” ` _Thor. He is Thor. First son of Odin. Crown Prince of Asgard._ `

I end up revealing my identity as a prince of Asgard to her, as she still looks sceptical and horrified.

Unfortunately, she is not wholely convinced, it seems.

“ **What makes you hate the jötun so much?** ” she writes.

I give her a disbelieving look. – I told her _already_ about the jötnar and their wasteland of a realm and even some of their brutality!

“ **A mother is a mother everywhere, Loki,** ” she continues, after giving my look a shrug. “ **There are good and bad mothers. But I doubt one would be called Laufeyjarson if one does not love their mother. It could also be a cultural thing, I suppose, but still a good thing.** ”


	73. Video and Computer Games

To distract myself and Atlanta – _especially_ Atlanta – from any further discussion about Laufey and its ilk, I persuade her to teach me about games that Midgardian youths might play in their spare time at home.

I shy away from gentle and/or thoughtful games, played on her “computer” or a physical board, and choose a “car racing videogame” instead.

It is so satisfying, to pelt other racers with projectiles, however ludicrous the projectiles are.

It is even more satisfying, when Atlanta introduces a one-on-one combat videogame to me.

I actually _smile_ at her when she next introduces me to a computer game about troop strategy and combat between nations. – I can pretend that one of the nations is Asgard and another one is Jötunheim.

And of course, the one designated as Jötunheim is demolished.

Right now, I cannot care less that Atlanta looks disturbed at my glee.

I play the game again, and again, and again, and again.

I stop only for meals and privvy breaks, also when the night is old and my hostess is about to retire to her bed.

But when she is asleep, I return to the “computer” and play the game again.

And Jötunheim falls again.


	74. Circus

Atlanta bars me from both the computer and the videogame console when she wakes up and finds me still at the computer, playing the same game.

She is my hostess, and she seems so upset somehow, so I stop, reluctantly.

“ **So much hatred is not healthy, Loki,** ” she writes. “ **It ruins you from inside.** ”

I snort. – Warriors everywhere are familiar with hatred. Even the civilians know it. I doubt that Atlanta has never felt that in her life.

Still, I deliberately change the subject instead of opening up a debate. Few like a good debate, especially with me, and I am not going to jeopardise the burgeoning _friendship_ that I have with Atlanta for her view. “ **What are we going to do today?** ” It is a valid question, at that, since I need to return to Asgard soon for Thor’s coronation.

She looks at me disappointedly for a long, long moment, but then relents upon my nonchalantly silent response to it. “ **There is a circus performance scheduled at the Town Hall for today and tomorrow. It should be exciting.** ”

Well, it turns out exciting _for her_ , not for me.

The Vanir can and _indeed_ do the performances better.

Poor mortals.


	75. Playgrounds

Atlanta, perhaps noticing my disappointment, does not direct us immediately back to her house.

I cannot say that I like this attempt of hers to give me a better experience, however.

“ **I know that you know that I am not a child in truth,** ” I send her a pointed text, as she steers me into a strongly grease-smelling eatery, right towards a construct that seems to be a compacted obstacle course, which is being used quite excitedly by _children_.

“ **Just go play, Loki. I will fetch you soon for a snack. Even warriors can do with some exercises on dexterity, and this playground can help with that,** ” she sends back, just as pointedly. “ **If I was smaller, I would join in.** ”

I give her receding back an incredulous look, until it is swallowed by the other eatery patrons.

I glance at the mouth of the obstacle course beside which she deposited me, then where I last saw her, then back to the flimsy-but-complicated-looking thing again.

Well, my shield of invisibility against Heimdall’s gaze is still strong, and Atlanta would be the last person to mock me for complying with her wish, and nobody else needs to know….

I join in.


	76. Chapter 76

The meal that Atlanta purchased for me in the noisy, grease-smelling eatery is… greasy, in a not-so-good way. It does not settle well in my mouth, in my throat, and in my stomach, either.

For the first time in my sojourn in this realm, I struggle to finish a meal, keep my composure, _and_ keep the meal contained in my stomach.

The only good part in this experience is the bitter-but-fragrant aroma that vaguely wafts out of Atlanta’s paper cup; “coffee”… which she refuses to share with me.

“ **I will get you a better one after this,** ” she writes. “ **Sorry you dislike McDonald’s. I will not bring you to a junkfood restaurant again.** ”

And she keeps her promise.

After the meal, we go to a “coffee shop” a few buildings away from the “junkfood restaurant,” to buy the bitter-but-fragrant drink for me.

I can smell the “coffee” long before that, this time. Just as we escape the stench of the “junkfood restaurant,” in fact.

She refuses to select the most fragrant “coffee” for me, instead choosing one that is both lighter in colour and more savoury, but it still serves to coat my digestion system.

Bitter-savoury-sweet. Better than old grease.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am encountering difficulties in writing the sequel. After so long and so intensely writing from Loki's point of view, it's so hard to do it from his mum's…. From here, I can either soldier on with it, change it to be from Loki's POV, or scrap the sequel entirely. I would greatly value your opinions on this matter. Thank you.  
> Rey


	77. Mystery

Atlanta prevents me from even sitting before the computer or the videogame console, once we are back at her house.

But then again, I am feeling too jittery to sit down for prolonged lengths of time _anywhere_ , presently. I never expected that “coffee” could affect me this way. Not even the strongest drink in Asgard managed to affect me thus!

Fortunately, perhaps noticing my current state, Atlanta ushers me out of her chamber, and we… comb through… _her adoptive mother’s_.

Quite like a pair of pillagers. Or spies. Or _thieves_.

And, “ **Can you detect hidden places?** ” she asks through her phone.

` _Yes. **Thieves**._`

Resignedly, I sign her a “Yes.”

And, predictably, she implores me to do so.

I give her my best stern look, but she does not budge.

` _Very well. This favour will repay her the rest of the way, at least. I can always claim such if her mother ever asks._ `

Atlanta jitters as much as I am, when I discover a cubical hidden in the wall behind the headboard of her adoptive mother’s bed.

And then she unearths a pile of photographs and small paintings from it, and, “ **Wow! Look! This person looks very much like you!** ”


	78. Social Media

Fortunately, the person that Atlanta mentioned is not recognisable as Mother, nor do… they… bear the name Frigga. They do look quite similar to me, however, down to the androgynous features that are oftentimes a curse for my social life in Asgard.

From the writing scrolled behind the pictures, the person is named “Nalla.” And they seem quite close – caring, even – to the pair of young women that Atlanta identified as her birth and adoptive mothers.

The mystery intrigues me, however reluctant I am to acknowledge that even to myself.

Well, the reluctance vanishes almost without a trace when Atlanta then introduces me to the social interactions that one can do “online,” including gatherings, just before she searches for “Nalla” through the “social media networks.”

Because the search turns out a “Facebook community” dedicated _just to this person_ , and the unseen people who are in this group have “posted” pictures that are eeriely similar to the ones that Atlanta found for everyone to see.

Apparently, “Nalla” has been a “tour guide” for a long, long time, specialising in making children and youths happy with long walks in forests and countrysides.

It makes me envious of those lucky children and youths.


	79. Games

“ **Your games have military applications, it seems, or perhaps a military background,** ” I note through the conversation paper when, blatantly attempting to distract me from my rumination, Atlanta shows me a series of large, colourful, well-illustrated books sharing the title “ **Games and Sports: An Encyclopedia**.”

Instead of answering through signage, in writing or verbally, she points a finger at a section of text detailing the latest game that I am about to read: hopscotch.

And the text does elucidate the point: This particular game was firstly used as a way to train a foot soldier’s agility.

It is not the only game or sport which began thus, at that, or clearly applicable for soldiers in training. The sporting game “baseball” and its like, for example, can be used to train wartime scouts and messangers who needs to dodge enemy hunters… who can _also_ be trained using the selfsame activity.

` _Hmm. I might like the training sessions more, if General Týr employed this trick. I wonder if I can copy this book to share with him, or have Atlanta purchase one for me, to be reimbursed by the Crown. For a rather pacifistic society, Midgardians are quite fond of warrior-like things…._ `


	80. Board Games

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you very much for the votes, folks. I am considering them carefully. I would greatly welcome more votes, until _Midget_ is posted in full. The sequel might take some time to post, after that, whatever I end up doing.  
> But for now, enjoy!  
> Rey

Surprisingly, I do not feel disappointed when, in a book in the series that specifically details the numerous board games world-wide, I find one named “congklak,” which is not at all related to military use. It is only a game of moving small pieces – seeds or small seashells – from hole to hole while counting them, and tallying them at the end of the game with the possesser of the larger number of the pieces as the winner.

` _The children will like it. They will be motivated to learn numbers, this way, and they can play it by themselves at home. Perhaps there is also a way to have them learn higher levels of mathematics using this game._ `

I am pulled away from my musing when Atlanta rudely covers the page that I am reading with the paper board of what I recognise as belonging to a “snake-and-ladder” game.

“ **Too much reading or studying is unhealthy,** ” she blithely writes on the conversation paper when I complain. “ **Come play then eat then sleep. I ordered us some Italian food. We can have a break when it arrives.** ”

I glare at her. I am _so_ tired of being treated like a little child.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Congklak](v) is a real board game. It is not native to Indonesia, but widely played there. The encyclopedia only touched upon the tip of the iceberg, in this chapter.


	81. Pillow Fights

I confront Atlanta _again_ about treating me as my _real_ age dictates, while we dine on the “Italian food” that she had delivered to us.

She gives me an unrepentant smirk, in return.

Now I think I know how Thor and his friends feel whenever I prank them in retaliation of something or another.

And it is not a pleasant feeling to be had, although it is not as deleterious as Sif and Hogun imply through their attitude towards me.

With that in mind, and seeking to return my own mood to something lighter, such as while we were playing “snake-and-ladder,” I animate her food using some illusion and telekinetic pull, startling her into coughing and dropping her eating utensils.

She gives me a look.

I give her my own unrepentant smirk, with relish.

I never expect to be greeted by a pillow to the face upon reentering her chamber from the kitchen where we dined, however.

She looks mischievous instead of angry, so I retaliate.

Triple the load, using my seiðr to pull the numerous pillows from her bed.

Most of which she surprisingly manages to dodge.

Well, it just makes things more interesting, does it not?

I grin.


	82. Pillow and Blanket Forts

Atlanta only calls for a halt to the pillow battle when she is panting heavily and her last throw nearly brings down her delicate display rack.

She has good endurance, for a mortal. A fair level of agility and tactics, too. Worthy of respect. So I agree to the truce. Perhaps even an indefinite truce, since I would rather that we not continue this childish game, and I sadly need to return home soon.

Our little adventure with the pillows does not end there, however, apparently.

“ **Do you want to experience a new way of sleeping?** ” she conveys through the conversation paper, which she then repeats through her signage. A mischievous look still adorns her face, so I am rightfully wary, but at the same time I cannot do much against my own curiosity.

It is how I end up helping her carry her mattress to what she calls “the living-room,” with a train of blankets and pillows following us.

We raid other soft materials throughout the house, afterwards, and move the couches in the living-room to her specification, namely surrounding the large mattress.

And, as the result, a walled and roofed nest stands in the middle of the room.


	83. Stomach Ache

Sleeping inside the “pillow fort” – as Atlanta calls it – is strange, yet strangely comfortable. In this way, I somehow do not mind sharing a mattress with her. But then again, we are cocooned in two separate nests made up of various pillows, cushions and blankets.

Cocoon. Yes. It is a cocoon.

Like the vague nightmare that I had a few days prior, but I valiantly beat it back from the fore of my mind.

I have a more immediate problem, anyway. Fortunately Atlanta is already deep asleep, judging from her slow, soft breathing.

My belly feels unsettled, and its protest becomes all the more vigorous as I attempt to ignore it.

Apparently, a large part or even all the foods and drinks that I have consumed here thus far do not agree with me. Most likely contributed by the unpleasant, overly greasy food that Atlanta bought me this morning. Previous experiences with new, deceptively harmless foods and drinks have taught me this. Head Healer Eir once explained the cause of this throbbing, wringing ache as a build-up of substances in the food or drink that my body rejects or clashes with but cannot flush out fast enough.

` _Damn. Damn. Damn._ `


	84. Misery

Miserable is what I am and how I feel, as I greet Atlanta upon _her_ waking up in the morning.

I managed to help my body flush out the unwanted substances, by drinking a lot of water from my own stores, as well as a large flaskful of bluish silvery liquid that Head Healer Eir claimed as “special milk” but never elaborated about. The flushing was even more unpleasant than the ache, however, with how things seemed to be wrenched and scrubbed painfully from my insides, only to be propelled out noisily and malodorously, _all throughout the night_.

Needless to say, I had no chance to rest and perhaps even enjoy the cocoon.

The taste of Head Healer Eir’s “special milk” was a greater allusion to the nightmare than the “cow milk” that was present in Atlanta’s kitchen, to boot.

I really, really, really did not relish experiencing a waking nightmare while my belly was wringing and scrubbing itself violently, noisily and malodorously out of all wastes and contaminants.

Somehow, thoughts and imaginings of the mysterious person named “Nalla” refused to depart my mind, too, during all that.

Worse, Atlanta pesters me right away about why I look so miserable.


	85. Medical Conditions

“ **So sorry Loki. I did not know. Maybe you are allergic to the additive substances. There are too many foodstuffs with those things by now. We should stock up on natural products then. Are you allergic to other things you think? Do you need medical help or medicines? I do not know if we should go to the hospital to treat you though. Do you still have that milk you mentioned? I think you should drink it some more to be safe. We can stay home while your body cleans itself up. I am so sorry about this.** ”

I give Atlanta a tiredly amused look for all her fretful, panicky rambling scroll.

“No,” I sign. “Already good.”

“ **Better,** ” I clarify on the conversation paper, as she has not taught me how to convey comparisons in her signage. Then, after some hesitation that I am sure she picks up on, I continue, “ **I would like to trade some skins for your bed or collection for a means to meet Nalla.** ”

To Niflheim with my pride, if I could not have my mother’s attention, I would welcome a chance to recover from the flushing under the purportedly sought-after care of that Midgardian.


	86. Meeting the Parents

I never expected nor imagined that Atlanta’s answer to my proposal would be to contact her adoptive mother right away. The older woman returning home only hours hence after days of absence was just as shocking.

Well, and bewildering, _too_.

But here the woman is, in the flesh, looking surprisingly almost as young as the figure illustrated on the photograph was, and greeting me cheerfully as though I had not been leeching off of her adoptive daughter – and by extension, her.

She loses her joviality when Atlanta confesses to have figuratively nosed about her most hidden location, but that is normal and understandable. Better than receiving her cheer, in fact.

Certainly _far better_ than the sharp attention that she pays on me, next, when Atlanta at last comes to the purpose of contacting her, namely permission for the young woman and I to go to where Nalla was last.

“You do look like Nalla, honey,” she muses, both verbally and in sign. “Are they your relation?”

“Nalla is never easy to find,” she continues after I sign her a “No.” “Jacky and I would’ve signed on to their next tour, if not.”

I suppress my disappointment, hearing that.

But still….


	87. Paintball

I tried bargaining. I tried bribing. I tried cajoling. But all that I got from Atlanta’s adoptive mother was a noncommittal air and, of all things, a sudden idea for the three of us to go play “paintball” somewhere in the city. And she refused to be dissuaded.

So here we are, in an arena filled with obstacle courses and structures that somewhat mimic a particularly dense village, each garbed in a strange, hard but light armour on the head and chest. And the similarities stop there, in my part, because the weapons that we are to use are neither swords, nor spears, nor staffs, nor bows, but elongated contraptions with perpendicular hand-holds named “paintball guns.”

War-games are war-games, still, whatever the weapon and arena are like, and I do not boast when I say that I am gifted with versatility.

The _three_ of us are to capture the “enemy” stronghold on the other end of the arena, while the “enemy” side consists of _five_ strapping young men. No wonder, then, that the “enemies” look down on us.

Well, they look up to us, _literally_ , bruised and battered, at the end of the game.

How satisfying and exhilarating it feels….


	88. Holidays

Apparently, Emilia – Atlanta’s adoptive mother – refused to grant my wish only because she was pondering it, and our paintball session was part of it. It is because now, as we are once more back in her home, she announces that we shall depart to somewhere called the Adirondacks _an hour hence_.

“ **Shes like that,** ” Atlanta types on her phone and shows me the screen. “ **Now wed best be packing. If she says an hour then its an hour.** ”

Her excitement is palpable _and infectious_. Otherwise, I would not return her widen grin and twinkling eyes with my own.

` _But what to pack? And how?_ ` The servants packed my belongings under Mother’s supervision, when I was small, and under my own supervision since a few centuries ago. Besides, is it fair for me to claim Atlanta’s clothes as my own and pack them with me?

Atlanta nudges me none too gently, when I spend a long moment just staring at the satchel that she has just tossed me.

“ **Come on wed be late!!!** ” She shoves the screen of her phone under my nose with an audible huff. “ **it’s a holiday!!!** ”

I swat her shoulder lightly, but cannot help smiling a little.


	89. Air Travel Is Scary

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies. I accidentally skipped over this chapter when posting. - Rey

Emilia, Atlanta and I travel to the Adirondacks using an “aeroplane,” which is a flying means of transportation.

Well, it turns out, I would rather take an Asgardian flying skiff any time. It would be much more private, much faster, and definitely far _steadier_.

Being cooped up in a small, closed-up, fragile-seeming, packed, shaking-and-tilting, straining-to-fly vehicle is _beyond_ horrible.

Worse, as Emilia told me, I have to bear this travel for _hours_ more.

“ **Try to relax. Look outside. The clouds are nice,** ” Atlanta, who sits between Emilia and I, writes on the conversation paper that she carries with her.

I give her a disbelieving look.

“ **We are safe,** ” she insists. “ **You can transport us all away if anything happens, too, right?** ”

` _What an unencouraging thought._ `

But I do turn away and look to my right, where a circular window paned with some flimsy material provides a limited view of the vast field of fat white clouds that we are flying over.

I do not know how far we are from the ground, and, partly, _I do not wish to know_.

I turn away again.

To think that _we have to take a return trip in this contraption_ , all too soon.


	90. Hotels

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please read the chapter before this for the "update." I accidentally skipped over it. Sorry. - Rey

Allspeak conveys that “hotel” is synonymous with “inn.”

Well, Allspeak is wrong _again_ , apparently. It is a disturbingly all-too-common occurrence, in this nearly unrecognisable Midgard.

Unlike an inn, a hotel – or at least _this_ hotel does not put its main emphasis on its common hall and/or eatery, nor does it serve _only_ as a place for weary travellers to bed for the night. In fact, this particular hotel that Emilia ushered Atlanta and me to features _so many_ facilities, from rentable and usable recreational items and structures to shops for necessities and trinkets related to this place.

And Atlanta already plans to drag me to _all_ these facilities.

“ **Holiday is not for books or assignments,** ” she texts her second phone that she stuffed into my hand before we departed her home.

“ **Holiday is for doing whatever one likes, including sleeping in or lazing about,** ” I text her back.

She rolls her eyes at me, and deliberately bars the way to the bedroom of this little suite.

“ **You can sleep in or laze about once we are back home.** ”

My heart twinges. ` _How do I tell her that I must return home soon? And that house is sadly not my home._ `


	91. Swimming Pools

The first place that Atlanta drags me to within the hotel’s area is what she calls the “swimming pool.” According to her, it is a public man-made structure for swimming, bathing, also playing with water, but not for cleaning oneself. Also according to her, one must wear a swimming costume when swimming there, and I could not avoid doing so because Emilia gave me such – a skin-tight, sleeveless and legless green one-piece of a rather silky, stretchy material – just before ushering us out of the suite.

Atlanta never told me that the swimming pool would smell pungent, however.

The water is clear, the white-and-blue tiles are clean, but the odor–!

Atlanta dives into the deceptively harmless body of water without any ado, thankfully without pushing me before her or dragging me along with her. Meanwhile, I stand as far away as possible from the thing, watching her with wide eyes.

I am not sure if even Thor and his friends would be so reckless as to dive into such a sharp-smelling water.

If foodstuffs with a sharp aftertaste could bother my digestive system so, I do not wish to know what this sharp-smelling water would do to my skin.


	92. Swimming

Emilia brought Atlanta and I to a nearby lake on Atlanta’s report that I refused to swim in the “swimming pool.”

Well, the lake is clean enough, safe-looking, and not too crowded, even though a few water-bound vehicles are floating or zipping round. So, without further ado, I take off my clothes and boots and, still garbed in the swimming costume that Emilia gave me, wade into the water.

How – unexpectedly – grateful I am that the adoptive mother and daughter follow suit.

“You know that this lake is actually not for swimming, right?” Emilia translates for her adoptive daughter’s signing, with an agreeing, amused smile on her own face, as both catch up to me, paddling lazily in the water.

The astonished and disbelieving looks that the other lake goers give me have told me as much beforehand. But surprisingly, they mean absolutely nothing to me, given the fact that these two people are swimming along with me. So, while I usually do not reply to such… admonishment? Observation?… now I give my fellow swimmer a small grin, before diving into the water and swimming farther to the centre of the lake.

Now, time to give those gawkers something… fun.


	93. Chapter 93

Damp and a little smelly but relaxed and contented, the three of us make a detour to a goat farm on the way back to the hotel, on Atlanta’s wheedling. She spends much time playing with the kids, with her adoptive mother hovering nearby and taking a video of her activity. Happily and relievingly left to my own devises, I befriend the farm’s single horse, and even get the farm’s owner’s permission to ride it round the plot of land under his supervision.

“Why don’t you want to play with the goatlings?” the kindly man asks more than half-way, as he lopes easily beside the peacefully trotting horse named Strawberry. “Can’t stand the smell? Or do you think it’s not cool to play with your big sister?” He grins and winks at me.

` _Sister…. If only…._ `

I force myself to give him a grin, to act like a child that I no longer am in truth. “The smell,” I confess. ` _And goats remind me too much of Thor’s damned pets escaping their pens and bothering me while I was in Mother’s private garden._ ` “Horses’ smells are less sharp.” ` _And I can pretend that I am taking a **solo** leisurely trip._`


	94. Assembling Toys

I was about to settle down with a book after the evening meal that Emilia had delivered to our suite, but then Atlanta dragged me away _again_ , now also towing her adoptive mother with her.

And here we are, in the hotel’s _children’s recreational room_ , with Atlanta, I _and Emilia_ settled on little, colourful wooden stools round a low, square table whose surface is composed of rows upon rows of raised dots.

Well, Emilia is not the only adult here, discounting my inner age, but this still feels… _bizarre_.

And the situation enters the zone of utterly ridiculous when _Emilia_ starts to assemble a… small house?… with various colourful pieces of toys which feature the raised dots, anchored on the middle of the table.

“ **This is a lego table, and Mom is building a house with lego bricks. Let’s add to it,** ” is what Atlanta tells me through a text message, before she slowly but insistently guides me in building a tiny outbuilding on one edge of the table.

This is… truly… _surreal_.

Even worse, the other adults who happen to glance at us regard us with indulgent smiles and warm eyes.

Some of them even join in.

` _Oh, Norns._ `


	95. Urban Legends

To my relief… and somehow disappointment… Emilia slowly drifts away from the “lego table,” talking idly with the other adults. Atlanta is soon drawn away to the videogame console, too, asking a young man who has just settled there, through cruder signs, if she can join in the game. Left alone, I immediately abandon the table and amble round the large, cluttered room, occasionally subtly animating a figurine, miniature or stuffed animal while a child is looking at it or handling it.

But soon, I find myself drifting towards the chatting adults seated on the colourful rug by the bookcase, as my ears, through the cacophony of game and toy noises and children’s voices, catch them talking about Nalla.

They are exchanging tales about _their prior experiences camping and/or travelling with Nalla_ , in fact. And they unhesitatingly expose their fervent wishes to experience it one more time, or at least gift such chance to their young charges.

“You know? Nalla once told me that she gave us fun times in memory of her twins,” one of them murmurs into a lull in the conversation. “One’s dead and the other kidnapped, and they were just newborns.”

My breath hitches. ` _If only…._ `


	96. Late Night Booty Call

Nightmares plague me, born out of the eavesdropped conversation. During my lucid moments, I envy Atlanta, who is sleeping soundly.

And then I realise that Emilia, too, has not been having a good night.

She gives me a wan smile and vacates the larger bed that she shares with Atlanta.

I follow her to the outer room. But, surprisingly, she does not seat herself in one of the chairs. She dons a jacket over her sleepwear, instead, and motions me to do the same.

“Let’s go to the bar,” she says after closing and locking the front door from outside. “I can get you a glass of milk or something, there.”

And she does order me a glass of iced chocolate milk, while she herself nearly gulps down her own drink… which is alcoholic and the one that I crave, to wash away my own nightmares.

“Did Ata tell you she’s actually my best friend’s daughter?” she asks into the silence, with her eyes on her _third_ drink. “All the talks about Nalla made me miss her all the more. N’don’t deny, kid, you eavesdropped.”

` _My. A pity party. Give me your drink, woman, and I shall tell you mine._ `


	97. Unexpected Visitors

Somebody comes to the table that I share with Emilia just as I siphon some of her drink into mine.

They are definitely not a waiter in this clean-and-crisp little tavern, as they _take_ her drink from her hand, instead of delivering another one to her.

And they take mine, too, before I can drink the improved milk.

“Hey!” Emilia and I chorus.

The unexpected, uninvited and unwelcome visitor seats themself on one of the two remaining padded stools at the table and, before our eyes, the contents of both glasses vanish.

“You are in the presence of a resourceful child, miss. You ought to be more careful,” they tell the outraged and slightly tipsy Emilia before any of us can do or say anything. And then they look into my own eyes… and blink, suddenly dumbfounded.

Not to say that I am faring better, myself. And for good reason.

` _Nalla! Nalla! They are Nalla! Those eyes – that face – but where did I hear that voice?_ `

“Child,” their voice is far lower and far hoarser, now, “what is your name? And when were you born?”

I swallow, hard, five times. Then, at last. “Loki… Odinson. I… one-thousand-two-hundred-and-ninety-four years, by tomorrow.”


	98. Unexpected Family Relations

As shaken as I am, my answer shakes the-one-who-must-be-Nalla even more. While I sit slack-faced like an idiot, they plant their elbows on the table and bury their face in their hands, clutching it as though they would have liked to rip it off.

And, barely stifled by those hands, I can hear sounds that are more akin to an animal dying in agony than an upset or grieving sentient being, let alone a shocked one.

No, they are not shocked by my name, or my age. But there is something in both that they recognised, or expected, and…. ` _Well, and then what? They do not feel like a mortal, so did they lose their children at the same time that I was born?_ `

And no, they do not feel like a mortal indeed, but _the feeling_ –! ` _Why are they so familiar? Who are they?_ `

The last question slips out of my lips before I can prevent it. And, for a moment, the hair-rising sounds get louder.

A rather familiar flask materialises on the table-top in front of me, instead of a verbal or gestural answer.

And, upon drinking the milk inside, it is my turn to stifle sobs.


	99. Loss of a Child

“Once, twins grew in my womb,” Nalla begins their – her? – tale, somewhat reluctantly and rather painfully, after Emilia relocated us to the suite. “War suddenly broke out, on three fronts. I had to lead my people. One of the combatants managed to bash my belly with a mace. It was a special mace. It broke most of my protections. The twins had to come out, half to term.”

She?… is unable to speak for a long moment, overcome once more by emotions. I feel rather nauseated, myself.

And then she tells us – or _me_ , rather, judging from her eyes never leaving mine – about her spouse’s younger child spiriting the newborn named Loptr to a temple, while the elder child did not manage to save the other one, named Loki. About Loptr no longer being there inside the temple when she dragged herself out of her sickbed to check.

About Asgard’s royal family gaining a newborn prince by the name Loki without the queen-consort being pregnant beforehand.

It was a millennium and two-hundred-and-ninety-four years ago.

` _The war. It must be the Asgard-Jötunheim war._ `

My parents lied to me.

They are _not_ my parents.

I am a jötun. I am a monster.


	100. Hugs

Author’s notes: The penultimate chapter for this story, folks, so here let me thank you for all your attention! Special thanks to **Brievel** and **Trickster32** and a few more who have not only been reading but providing quite a few nice/interesting/entertaining observations, thoughts and remarks! Thank you very much also to those who have voted about the sequel, and I hope I’ll see you again in the continuation that will be posted soon, titled _Mummy_ … which will be in Loki’s POV again, but focusing on Laufey instead of Atlanta. - Rey

  1. Hugs



I blink my eyes rapidly, repeatedly, but my sight remains blurry.

I can hear sobbing. Maybe it is _she_ who is sobbing. Maybe it is I. Maybe we…. I no longer care. I _cannot_ care.

My entire life has been a lie.

I am a jötun. I am a monster.

I am not an ás. I am not Odinson.

Odin the thief. Stealing a _jötun_. But _why_? What for? He already had Thor! A far better prince. Far more of an ás. _Truly_ an ás.

Asgard would never – _will never_ – accept a jötun as their prince, even just a spare prince.

Father – no, _Odin_ – said that Thor and I were born to be kings. Is that why…? But what about Mother’s – _Frigga, Frigga, Frigga_ – reason?

I thought she truly cared for me. _Why_ did she lie? Did she care for me as a front, an _obligation_ to a monstrous offspring not of her own?

Not hers. I am somebody else’s. Maybe this “somebody else.” A jötun in the guise of a civilised being. Just like me. _Quite_ like me, even in looks. My mother, after all. My mother, the monster.

The monster that is gathering me in her arms, presently.


End file.
